The first rule, always, is to be grounded. So our feet, we planted on the floor, each one of us seated in our most comfortable positions. Our heads we kept bowed and our eyes, closed, as the lights of the classroom dimmed and the music - a classical piece; gentle, saccharine - poured out of the speakers, an accompaniment to the heartbeats and breaths that held most of our focus. Each beat and rhythm an anchor to the present; a tether that held us to reality.

And what a reality it was.

Peak of the semester and with a glance, anyone could tell. We were down to half the size of the class, and a quarter left of the hour before it would all come crushing down: the stress and hustle of being a day away from one of the semester's biggest assignment deadlines. The reality of which loomed, casting its shadow over us.

The music rose gently to a crescendo, before the chords turned delicate once again and were met with the soft notes of a woman's voice. Hushed, her voice drew out each word carefully, purposefully, as if she was testing the fit of them in the music. It took a moment for me to register the words for what they were: a set of instructions to construct a scene that would then in our minds' eyes, be set into motion.

As I took in the words, I saw it: a dreamscape, crafted from the words spoken by another.

As mines took form, I saw in it a girl sitting lone on the floor, cross legged and shoulders slumped, staring mutely at a point in the distance. Reality had cast a wide shadow, for here, too, it lurked: in the depths of a pair of brown eyes, set downcast and lacklustre. Across from her, a door stood closed, but the room the girl sat in was otherwise empty. 

Or rather, the room I sat in was otherwise empty. Because that was me, in this mind's story. A girl sitting lone in an empty room, looking for the world the way I had, at that moment in reality, felt: weary, and losing much, save for a little bit, of hope.

It was almost laughable then, that this sliver of borrowed time in a world imagined became the moment that we met.

When water rushes down a stream, it carries with it my favourite sound. One that is tied to a memory.

The memory of a girl by a fountain, who wished for a dream. This was when I had first fallen in love with psychology - enchanted by the promise of an embracing calm that would come if I listened closely to the way water moves down the streams of a fountain. I had left that day with a hope that quickly blossomed within me; already realising then and there the beginnings of what would then become my dream.

I am still that girl. This is still my dream. And I am now one year away from realising it.

As I near the end of my degree, questions come up of where I would go - questions to which I have found I have many changing answers. But the more halting ones are those that ask me what happens next. Once I come to the end of this six year dream, what happens next?

I've been thinking about this for a while. And then I came upon a rerun of one of my many favourite movies.

There is a scene in the movie Tangled where Rapunzel asks what happens if her dream doesn't turn out the way she had always imagined - and then, more pressingly, what happens if it does? What happens after the dream that you've had for so long comes true?

(And this is my favourite part).

"You get to find a new dream."

These words have stuck with me ever since.

Six long years I've spent pouring so much of me into this dream that I am living now; six long years of this unwavering drive and certainty of this dream of mines. Everything from the moment I found this dream, to this moment I am a year away from realising it, has been for me to live out this dream and little to me has mattered except for me to achieve it, without realising that one day, it would come to an end.

And it will, as all things do. The same way things have beginnings, they also have their endings.

But here's the thing: at the end of one story comes the start of another. This story started with a girl, a fountain and her wish from it for a dream. And now, almost at the last legs of this dream, I get to find a new dream.

And so this is the answer to the halting questions that ask what happens next: to find a dream after this dream.

I am getting close to the end of my degree. I have many questions and twice as many unsettled and ever-changing answers. But I am still that girl. The one by the fountain who had wished for a dream. And now, I will, once again, let the calm of its sound embrace me to find a dream after my dream, one year away from realising it.

So now when water rushes down a stream and carries with it my favourite sound, it will be tied not only to a memory, but also to a promise.

---

the girl who wished for a dream, an epilogue + some questions & reflections 🎕

studying psychology has long been a dream of mine - and perhaps, the biggest one I've had, along with being a writer. and I have worked towards it for years, held on to it, cried and fought for it. and now here I am, almost at its end. it's like coming to the end of a really good book and realising you've spent so much time and love on it and that it has filled up a space that would then, in its absence, be a gaping empty hole - one that is hard to fill.

it is easy to forget that there is more waiting for me beyond this dream, the same way that you may forget that there is more waiting for you behind yours. this is story that I have come for and a reminder for myself and for you: don't stop dreaming or let go of the dreams you have now, but rather be hopeful and make space for the dreams that have yet to come - because they will come, In sha Allah (God Willing), and those dreams will need you when they do.

How about you? How will you come for the story today? What are some dreams that you have that you long to come true? 

The day I broke down from the pressure of the semester, I bought my first bouquet of fresh flowers.

I carried them in one hand - a vibrant array of pinks and yellows and whites - holding them close to my chest. My mind was abuzz; cheeks, flushed; my heart playing a racket of incessant deafening thuds, as I raced my way through the silent piercing cold of a night. When I reached home, I offered them to the glass vase that sat empty by our living room, and watched, in their presence, as the space lit up.

For a moment, they were there: a beauty to behold.

But the days I started to heal, my flowers started to wither.

I watched as the petals fell - more and more each day; the once vibrant cluster of pinks and yellows and whites sitting in a faded heap by night. Their glow became a distant memory, only barely lingering in the days before they disappeared completely. Time had caught up - to them, an unbecoming; but to myself, a beginning. 

And it was as much an irony to me as it was a wonder, to find that there is a place, a time, a moment, where things could be falling apart and at the same time, be coming together. And what a beauty that is to behold.

---

a study of fallen petals, an epilogue + some questions & reflections 🎕

this is a lesson I'm still learning: that things could stray from their original plans, go in a completely different way than what was imagined, be flawed and imperfect, and still, you can enjoy them. and that you can feel two things - sad and happy, confused and certain, lonely and content in solitude - at the same time and it can still make perfect sense. life is dynamic, complex and sometimes contradictory - as much as it is beautiful, wonderful and worthwhile. and so are you. you are multidimensional and you can be many things at once.

Allah said in the Quran, "For indeed, with hardship [will be] ease. Indeed, with hardship [will be] ease". as I witnessed my flowers withering and my mental health at the time blossoming, the lesson and this message became something tangible, and so it was for this story that I came. that is to learn the art of how things can fall but still come together from the art of falling petals.

How about you? How will you come for the story today? What experience or example comes to mind when you think of things coming together while also, coming apart?

The clock has struck. Multi coloured embers emerged from the ground and danced against the veil of black sky. Beneath the display stood a crowd of people with confetti's strewn across the ground by their feet. Their faces lit up with joy as they welcomed the coming dawn of a new year.

Some looked to the fireworks against the sky and smiled at the promises they made in silence. Others looked at their loved ones and squeezed their hands, grateful that they were together for the new beginning to come. 

Somewhere, away from the masses and the celebration, in a darkened room in a house already in slumber, a girl laid on her bed, her features set aglow from the brightness of her phone. The numbers on her screen changed, and from an eye a tear escaped. Like everyone else who welcomed the new year, she had been waiting. But she, unlike everyone else, had hands gripping at her heartstrings, playing to the tune of her anxiety - a rhythm she knew all too well. She let the song play, and let the tears come rushing out as her boulder-sized worries weighed her down.


Little did she know, in the depths of her worries, listening to her shuddering breaths and her quickening heart beats was a flickering but constant spark. One that would not interfere. Not yet. For with time, the girl's breaths would even out, and she would slowly find rest and ease. With time, her heart would find calm in the tears she would leave to dry. With time, the spark would come alight and alive, and they would, in their merged glow, be hopeful, be forgiving, and live.

---

I was once that girl.

When 2018 came, I was both hopeful and terrified. Hopeful, because new years meant new beginnings and a chance to 'startover'. Terrified, because new years felt so pure and sacred - and that one wrong slip or move, and I won't get that fresh beginning again. 

But with time, Masha Allah, Alhamdulillah, I no longer feel that way. Allah has opened my eyes and has let me realise a few things about new years/change: 

02. "Our minds are not like tape recorders or cameras. You don't get more space by removing things from it. Instead, you built on top of what is already in mind and continue from there." This, I learned from one of my psychology classes. And I've held on to it since. The way I see it is this: you can't 'delete' your past mistakes. You can't get a clean slate. Instead, you can use your past as the foundation to build onto and become a better you. In sha Allah. So be forgiving.

03. Change can be a mental thing. New years can be seen as an opening to make changes to your life. But it doesn't need to be. The desire to change can become a mindset. A constant mindset. So for as long as you have that 'change for the better' mindset, you don't need to wait every year to renew resolutions and make changes in your life, In sha Allah. You can just search inside yourself the desire to make changes, and change. So live.