<p>I retired after a seemingly endless, mundane and extremely mediocre day with a copy of Sigmund Freud’s ‘The Interpretation of Dreams’. Soon I was sucked into the alluring mire of the master psychoanalyst’s take on the mystic subconscious, the ongoing clashes between the I, ego, superego et al.<br /><br />Ominous clatter of hoofs sounded suddenly as the night unleashed frightening mares, which thundered towards me at lightening speed. They escaped not before having stepped hard on my left clavicle.<br /><br />“Oh, not again”, I thought as I rushed to the mirror to asses the damage. History couldn’t be repeating itself thus — the doctor who had delivered me, had apparently informed my stupefied parents of my cracked collarbone. Later, it was set right.<br />My fears were baseless — the looking glass said. My clavicle seemed fused. There was nothing amiss… Or was there?<br /><br />As I beheld my reflection I saw an entity — a dramatically improvised image of me. Her eyes were alive, a far cry from my sleep-deprived, bloodshot ones now. Clearly, this girl was bewitching in a way I could never be.<br /><br />“Who are you?!” I whispered hoarsely. “Maya, your alter ego; all that you want to be but are not”, the beauty of the hour glass form responded. Her voice was power personified: “Surrender” Maya urged, “Surrender to me tonight, sister. Your harmonious union with me; your alter-ego, will benefit you in every arena of life.”<br /><br />I was tempted by Maya’s offer. As I shut my eyes in reflection and opened them, they bulged in horror. Maya was mounted on the crazed red bull of ambition; with razor-sharp horns and a forked tail. It was ruthless as she was, uncompromising and blind to everything while reaching goals.<br /><br />There seemed to be blood on my eyes too as an early morning ray fell on my closed lids and woke me up. I heaved a sigh of relief. Maya was a dream. ‘The Interpretation of Dreams’ was lying by my side. I vaguely wondered how Freud would have interpreted mine.<br /><br />I stood up, ready to face another difficult day; albeit happily. Maya was exquisite and her world magical, but mine was real, one of honest and uncompromising hard work. I could even make my visions come true. As I reflected on this, words of William Blake sounded in my mind: “No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings”.</p>
<p>I retired after a seemingly endless, mundane and extremely mediocre day with a copy of Sigmund Freud’s ‘The Interpretation of Dreams’. Soon I was sucked into the alluring mire of the master psychoanalyst’s take on the mystic subconscious, the ongoing clashes between the I, ego, superego et al.<br /><br />Ominous clatter of hoofs sounded suddenly as the night unleashed frightening mares, which thundered towards me at lightening speed. They escaped not before having stepped hard on my left clavicle.<br /><br />“Oh, not again”, I thought as I rushed to the mirror to asses the damage. History couldn’t be repeating itself thus — the doctor who had delivered me, had apparently informed my stupefied parents of my cracked collarbone. Later, it was set right.<br />My fears were baseless — the looking glass said. My clavicle seemed fused. There was nothing amiss… Or was there?<br /><br />As I beheld my reflection I saw an entity — a dramatically improvised image of me. Her eyes were alive, a far cry from my sleep-deprived, bloodshot ones now. Clearly, this girl was bewitching in a way I could never be.<br /><br />“Who are you?!” I whispered hoarsely. “Maya, your alter ego; all that you want to be but are not”, the beauty of the hour glass form responded. Her voice was power personified: “Surrender” Maya urged, “Surrender to me tonight, sister. Your harmonious union with me; your alter-ego, will benefit you in every arena of life.”<br /><br />I was tempted by Maya’s offer. As I shut my eyes in reflection and opened them, they bulged in horror. Maya was mounted on the crazed red bull of ambition; with razor-sharp horns and a forked tail. It was ruthless as she was, uncompromising and blind to everything while reaching goals.<br /><br />There seemed to be blood on my eyes too as an early morning ray fell on my closed lids and woke me up. I heaved a sigh of relief. Maya was a dream. ‘The Interpretation of Dreams’ was lying by my side. I vaguely wondered how Freud would have interpreted mine.<br /><br />I stood up, ready to face another difficult day; albeit happily. Maya was exquisite and her world magical, but mine was real, one of honest and uncompromising hard work. I could even make my visions come true. As I reflected on this, words of William Blake sounded in my mind: “No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings”.</p>
