Mary Sachii
Kohima
I go to bed to sleep, but here I am again; like a night owl, endlessly scrolling. My screen glows like the moon, my restless thumb tapping as I laugh at reels, while deep inside my heart aches. Lying in the comfort zone of my bed, I helplessly try to escape reality.
An inner voice whispers: “Go to bed early, wake up with better choices.” Yet, the comfort zone I cling to refuses to let me go. And when I finally set my phone aside and the brightness fades, thoughts return—What if?
Where did the dreams that once shone so brightly disappear? Why does my mind resist, why does my heart grow stubborn? As I close my eyes, I think of my aging parents and their unfulfilled dreams. Am I destined to walk the same path passing down a legacy of sadness and unrealized hopes?
No. I cannot. I will not. I must rise before time wrinkles my skin and weakens my will. I pray, “Lord, grant me the strength to change.” I long to replace the hollow smiles on my parents’ faces with the light of genuine joy.
It breaks my heart when I wake in the middle of the night and hear my parents still turning restlessly in bed. Even the best mattress cannot give them peace. A middle-class life it is: where dreams are bartered away for the urgent need of money, long before one even understands the real struggle.
As I grow older, I notice new wrinkles on my parents’ faces—fine lines deepening with each passing day. I wonder: Had I made better decisions? Had I found a wiser guide? Yet I remind myself—it is never too late to dream, never too late to make them come true.
More than anything, I wish to see my parents truly smile—before age bends their backs, before frailty steals their steps, before beds become their final rest. All I want is to make them proud, to give them joy in their lifetime.
This is the heart of a middle-class dreamer.
