This morning I got up with a vague feeling. I dreamed of Utopia. It was beautiful! and of course unreal. but there it was. Everything was fine. Everything was put straight by us. The earth had been saved. There were no black holes and no global warming. the level of carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide and methane was perfect. No animals had become extinct or even endangered in many many years. There was greenery every where. On the social front, organized religion had evaporated in thin air. Its place had been taken by a free for all society. Gender bias had been stopped too. Crimes were almost non existent. Women were not raped and all children were provided with education. Everyone had jobs. People were content. There was abundance of food. Everyone observed social responsibility. Children were loved by all. elders were respected. There was a Uniform Civil Code. Passports were not necessary any more. Visas were not issued for entering and exiting countries. There was no bloodshed and no wars for land and territory. In fact, there were no borders. Everything was PERFECT!
After having this dream, I should have been a happy person. But this morning I got up with a vague feeling. It was a nagging kind of a feeling. It was tugging at me. Why? I wondered. I kept pondering over this question. Why was I not happy. It was indeed a happy dream. then why not? I went to college with this feeling.
When I entered my classroom, my friends congratulated me. I had supposedly won the Essay competition called the 'The World in 2109: better or worse?' In the essay I had imagined Utopia. Just like in my dream. But somewhat more elaborate. Yes. Utopia.
What if, we really, in some far fetched time line, do achieve Utopia. Will the world be a better place? Oh yes! but surely. It would be. Every one will be happy and content. Everyone. But for one person. The WRITER. The writer will die, wither away in anonymity. Utopia will mean the sad demise of the writer, the author, the poet. What will he imagine about? How will he write stories filled with optimism. How will he portray the real 'reality?' How will he write heart rending poems about the poor, the suppressed and the downtrodden? How will he find the lotus blooming on mud? How will he create castles in mid air?
I smiled to myself. I had got my answer. I would no longer be needed. I am the writer. I dream. I write. I create. I weave. Oh but I wouldn't be able to do it right?
So much for selfishness. but definitely some food for thought ha? Ha Ha.