Awakening the dreamer and storyteller in me
Help me figure out how to put my superpowers to good use in a world that stopped dreaming
It’s about time I say these words out loud and with an appropriate sense of pride and ownership:
I am a dreamer and a storyteller!
It has taken me a while since I found this out, a couple of months ago, to muster the courage and utter them. We live in grim and despondent times, in a world that seems to have lost the ability to dream. Instead, our worst nightmares, the ones we chose to ignore for far too long, are materializing before our eyes. Our self-inflicted pain torments so unbelievably many of us, often at no fault of their own. The deep scratches we cut in our arms are oozing all our vigor. In such a place, my abilities — the power of a vivid and ceaseless imagination, of enduring optimism, and the gift of conjuring inspiring stories in a single image or a string of words — look decidedly out of place, antiquated luxuries more befitting to the heady days of the eighties and nineties than to this second decade of the twenty-first century. The twenty-first century, for crying out loud! Once synonymous with our wildest utopian dreams: flying cars, moon bases, interstellar travel, eternal life; now closer to the dystopias of twentieth century fiction — think 1984 or A brave new world — than we ever feared possible.
Do you see me?
The planet is awash with inequality, rife with injustice. Artificial scarcity and lopsided power structures keep us divided and anxious. We export wars and the means to conduct them, while the resulting insurgencies reflect the terror back onto our streets. We plunder the richness of the only home we have, ravaging its beauty along the way, as we hurtle towards our nadir, oblivious of our impending demise. In this accelerating vortex at the confluence of a series of catastrophes of our own making we are kept meek and powerless, ignorant and complacent by media that constantly spin an alternate reality, a parallel universe if you like, where there is no us, only me me me, and them, the others.
“We mistake latte syrup choice for vulnerability and authenticity as what sets us apart as individuals.”
It is the corporate-sponsored throwaway culture of late-stage neoliberal capitalism that pushes us to be different — individuals, islands even — supposedly expressing who we are for the world to see. And yet, as we shout on all channels, “Have you seen me?” because we no longer dare to ask, “Do you see me?” fearing they might say no, or worse, yes, we could not be more indistinguishable. Bland, standardized, uniform, we shop at the same brand stores, wear the same outfits and sport the same gadgets, available in an seemingly infinite supply—all made, mind you, by people whose life we make miserable. We mistake latte syrup choice for vulnerability and authenticity as what sets us apart as individuals. And so, because we have lost sight of how similar we all are deep down, once stripped of the superficial monotony of pop culture, instead of cooperating, our natural tendency as the most successful social species, we are easily pushed to compete. We are made to believe we are better off alone instead of leaning on each other, supporting one another, helping, caring.
We have, in fact, institutionalized loneliness. And we all bear the consequences.
Yet, it can be so different.
And in many ways, it already is. Everywhere people are pushing back. Men and women of all stripes and all layers of society are recreating the fabric of cooperation, the foundation of a just and equal society with space for everyone. You’ll find many of them reporting their progress here, on Medium. But, unless you are paying attention—and if you’re here, reading this, chances are you’re already paying attention—most of this (save, possibly, big events like the DAPL protest) is lost in an ocean of doom and gloom. Ignored by the mainstream media, these countless stories are still waiting to be told. We are a storytelling species. Our very survival has always depended on folktales to pass important information from one generation to the next. Now, more than ever, we need those stories of survival, perseverance, resilience and hope. In a time where the only strength we are allowed to show seems to be indifference and inhumanity, where vulnerability is equated with weakness, we need to put kindness en empathy front and center again. It is our greatest source of strength. It connects us with others, can anchor us firmly in our networks and binds our communities together.
“We have, in fact, institutionalized loneliness. And we all bear the consequences.”
In this world inundated by stories of disaster, I discover I’m a storyteller. In a time of catastrophic breakdown of imagination, an age where dreaming is at best seen as being whimsical, but more often derided as sign of laziness and unworldliness, I have come to accept I’m a dreamer. I was gifted, somehow, the only known antidote to cynicism, a cure in shockingly short supply these days, and now it’s up to me to put these twin superpowers—dreaming and storytelling—to good use. I have already started, years ago, writing my own story. I’m imagining, for the first time, possibilities and opportunities, seeing the paths that can lead me there.
It may seem odd for a dreamer, but I have long not dared to conceive my own future. Lacking the emotional skills to make it happen, I saved myself from the disillusionment. Things are slowly changing. I’m acquiring those very skills. I recognize it is my right to dream. To dream of my future. To envision ours. As I learn, happily fumbling and stumbling along the way, to wield my talents, I invite you to join me, to guide me and support me. If there is one thing I know already, is that I can’t do it alone. My story is connected to yours. Your story is woven into mine. Together we can tell the tale of our common destiny.
Let’s make it inspiring.
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