Dreams Are Made Of Money

I had a dream. A dream for the perfect life. But what is the word perfect? 

  In primary school almost completing UPSR, my dad came home with a printed set of papers with the word “Nottingham” in bold letters on top of the page. “One day, you will be studying here,” he said. I actually did, made it through the first year. 

  Fast forward to waiting for my SPM results to come out, so that I could submit my last important document to get a place in Nottingham. About a week and half later, I did. Met some people in the craziest way, seen the few that caught my eye, infatuated by one.

  Coming to the present about few days ago, anxiously but patiently waited for the last few seconds to tick off during the last paper of the final semester. Clicking memories with the friends and bidding farewells for one third of a year. 

  It was at the last time at the cafeteria table, where me and my usual people would be, that hit me the most that I, will most probably not return back to this place anymore and it was totally disheartening to watch my two almost-best mates watch me leave. With a final bye at Jack. 

  I had a dream. That I would meet amazing people from different countries and backgrounds. That I would participate in activities that could improve myself and broaden my mind. That I would maybe hold responsible positions in clubs and societies or even students association. That I would, with God’s grace, exchange to the campus abroad and get a year there. That I would burn the midnight oil with my friends doing assignments and studying for exams, sharing laughter and pain with each other and making it through. That one final time at graduation, my parents would be so proud of me holding a UK degree in my hand on stage. But, we all know there is always a “but” in the middle. 

  At that one moment, all these just shattered, and you’d probably wonder why. Living up to parent’s financial mistakes, realizing that everything was unplanned because my existence itself wasn’t a planned one, what more could you ask for? That’s when reality bitch-slapped me in the face and told me that, “Hey, you’re too poor to be here because you live in you dad’s debts, already having more than what you have on your plate, living pathetically off sardines and rassam, look at where are you know, don’t even know where you’re gonna end up next, why come here? Look at you now.” 

  And that was the utmost moment I realized, that what I described earlier, was not a dream but a mere fantasy, which only holds joy for a second. They tell you to dream big, but do they tell you that it comes with a cost? Not a metaphor way of cost but an actually money-involving cost. Seems like only people with money are allowed to have dreams. Beggars like me can’t be choosy so it’s best to stick with leftovers. I said what I needed to say. 

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