Sure, they may say "But mom! We should all follow our dreams, and I'm super passionate about it", but don't let them. They may say they're passionate about it, but if they were they would at least finish one story instead of collecting endless piles of blank pages with nothing but a single line of a vague idea on each one. These vague ideas will rot with time like the old tales with barbaric morals, and they're going to do nothing but distract your child from focusing on the pointless schoolwork that infinitely bores them, causing them to daydream all day and remain stuck in their own head. This career will cause them endless pain, as one little piece of common sense may derail hours upon hours and lines upon lines of their hard work. They're going to eternally hate themselves as they contemplate all of the life choices they made just because of one little fable, ever-scared because they can't do their could-be masterpiece justice in the writing process. They're going to cry their heart out in the middle of the night as the harsh cruelties of the world reject the moral ideologies they put forth just because they're children stuck all day behind the damning computer screen, teaching them again and again and again what rejection feels like, and that the tears only come back stronger each and every time. And the computer screen. Oh. It's going to rot their eyes till they wear literal telescopes on a daily basis just because they wanted to get that one slang phrase from an indigenous language just right, so they sacrificed their sleep and pushed aside their schoolwork leaving them to flunk just so they could get exactly that. They ought to learn that life's unfair and that they can't just magically run away to someplace far away from the looming work deadlines. In school, they're going to be failing all their classes because of that unchallenged dedication, except maybe English class because they're the only ones who know what and regularly use the all—mighty—em—dash. Then they're going to start arguing with their teachers about where commas go, and they're going to disrespect their elders. They're going to run, rejecting old traditions just because they think having the research and knowledge that goes against old superstitions could do anyone any good. They're going to stand up for the disgusting outcasts of society and villainized people in the media, and they're suddenly going to care about women's rights, animal rights, rights of tiny ethnic and religious groups and even basic human rights, all from that writing the perspectives and points-of-views of different characters had them consider the vastly different experiences of the other side. Writing made them develop a more complex sense of empathy, and perhaps even a heart. A heart? Everyone knows that thing's good for nothing in the modern world on the verge of war. The school playground should've taught them that ages ago. They're going to experience colourfully beautiful experiences first-hand and really understand what pure joy, anger, malcontent, sadness, fear, and grief really is. Everyone knows that the other feelings are bad, should not be acknowledged, and pushed deep down for them to cause more psychological problems in the long run. Psychological problems aren't real anyways, they just worsen most physical health problems. Children who write dare to think anything but a fake, wide smile is worth seeing; they think they should appreciate the things that make life so unpredictable and worth living. They're going to make unnecessary noise when they scream and jump for joy upon seeing that the publisher of their favourite book is going to have their logo in the corner of the cover of their little fairytale. They're going to write with all their heart pouring into their work and seriously lay their emotions bare for the whole world to see. They're going to annoy people they actually care about with another hundreds-of-pages-long remix of the same 26 letters. They cried with joy while holding a wood-pulp manifestation of their manipulation of 21 consonants and 5 vowels. Absolutely pathetic. How dare they feel anything for imaginary people who understand and help them process their emotions better than any real person could? They must be going clinically insane. On top of that, they giggle maniacally whilst the person they're writing about gives the reader a hard time? Only insane people can process the emotions of so many diverse and different people within one lifetime. What's more, they rally people and hypnotise them into getting obsessed with these fake people. They help even more people manage the stress of the real world and properly address their emotions and experiences? It makes them feel that all the hard work they put into their beloved stories was worth it and has been exonerated? Sounds fake. Stress is fake. They're probably actually starting a cult with their tall tales and fancy words. It's a dangerous pursuit.

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I had sat for 20 minutes without noticing any change. The sun was harsh, and it made most of the others I sat with stone faced. A lot were minding their business while a few were already getting into lively conversations and it seemed like I was the only one still in a certain confusion. How is this process organized? I grew up an inquisitive child. You tend to pick up a mind that's always keen on knowing how things worked; when you are born into a strict home where going to play with others is considered a felony and a conversation with a stranger is a crime, but you also somehow owed everyone older than you a greeting. I always welcomed opportunities to learn and I became more introverted and rebellious with the increasing amount of time I had to spend in my head. As I got older, I got super shy, being able to ask a stranger a question was Christmas, and to keep the conversation was Santa's gifts wrapped and tied with red ribbons, so I was mostly left with one person to always talk to, me. I however mastered the art of soliloquy, which never really seemed to work with the ladies. The things that conversations with myself taught me were patience, optimism and how to tear my toys apart to know what made the car move, and to understand the mechanism behind the water gun. I always felt there was no one I could really ask about what bothered me, the adults didn't exactly think. They never seemed to have any answers to my unending questions. Once, my uncle and I were given a bowl of rice with a single piece of fish and meat. When we were done eating, he took the meat and at my protest, he had to convince me. “Fish is better than meat and has more nutrients” he had said, but after a pause my 4 year old self replied, “If that is the case, then why are you eating the meat and not the fish?”. I had once reasoned that if everyone else brought their requests to God in the morning and night, then it would be smarter to come at a time when many people will be busy. A time when he would be quite lonely and in need of company. I could totally relate with God, he was one person I felt wasn't also allowed to go out and play with others, and they never really cared about his opinion too. So just like me he learnt to soliloquize, like he does so well with the contrasting mixture of mute lightening and deafening thunder. Little wonder why storms never scared me. Like when I lost my dad to the cold bullets encouraged by an assassins' ability to use his index finger. Who for some reasons felt I didn't deserve to have any parent at 19. He must have had the same take on the issue as some relatives, “you are now a man” they said. Or when I lost my mum who succumbed to illness leaving behind a 6 year old. On both occasions though, I didn't shed a single tear. Not because I was a man, but because in my head we had talked and agreed that crying will not help make the situation any better. Living most of your childhood in your head and most of your adult life struggling alone, certain things no longer faze you. So when I got a call from my Network provider that my SIM card which I had registered some 10 years ago was no longer registered in my name, I was not shocked. I mean, you will think that being a faithful customer for that long would at least count for something. “We have reshuffled registration”, whatever that meant in English, and I was told that if I didn't go to their office to repair a damage that they had caused, in 4 days, I would be barred from using any of their services. I had woken up that morning reluctantly but patiently bullying myself through the whole preparations that humans have deemed necessary for mixing with a crowd; Bathe, brush, dress up (I wonder who made these rules) optimistic that by the end of the day, I will own my SIM once again. I had tried to work out the meaning of reshuffling registration in my head for 3 days now with no success. So I put on my face mask, and set out not knowing that life had planned another lesson to teach. As I sat watching people go in and out of their office, trying to connect the dots on what has been happening to no avail; I turned to the lady beside me. She had eyes that reminded me of Angelina Jolie. A constellation that drowns you with a wave of its reflection. Like a sea and with just as much surface tension. Yes, I have a thing for eyes. So since I was confused and she had those galaxies on her face, I tried to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone. I will get direction on what to do, and start a conversation. I asked her how the process was organized, to which she chuckled, pointed to a paper and said “put down your name”, after which she turned back to her phone. Being very teachable, I learnt from that moment, that there were simple things of life that even the smartest person can only grasp by gleaning from the experiences of others. So for me today Christmas came but without Santa's gifts.