THE DREAM

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Abhay who loved to write. He spent every moment of his spare time he could with his typewriter, creating beautiful works of literature that filled his soul with joy.

As he grew older, Abhay began to dream of becoming a famous writer. He imagined his novels sitting upright on the bookshelves of libraries around the world, admired and appreciated by people everywhere.

But the people in Abhay’s town didn’t share his passion for literature. They told him that writing was a waste of time and that he should focus on something more practical, like business or medicine. Even his own parents urged him to choose a more lucrative career path.

Despite the discouragement, Abhay continued to write. He poured his heart and soul into every word he typed, determined to follow his dreams no matter what anyone else said.

As the years went by, however, it became harder and harder for Abhay to believe in himself. He saw his peers getting good jobs and making money, while he struggled to sell even a single novel.

Eventually, Abhay gave up on his dream of becoming a famous author. He went to college, got a degree in business, and got a job at a bank.

But even as he worked long hours and climbed the corporate ladder, Abhay couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing from his life. He missed the joy and passion he had felt when he was writing — typing the little keys on his keyboard, and giving a thump of satisfaction as he typed the last words of his blog.

One day, Abhay stumbled across an old article he had written as a teenager. As he looked at the intricate details and the vocabulary density when he was barely fifteen, he felt a flicker of that old passion start to come back.

And in that moment, he realized that he didn’t have to give up his dream of being a writer. He could still write, even if it wasn’t his full-time career. He could still create wonderful pieces of literature and share them with the world.

So Abhay picked up his keyboard again and began to type. And he typed for hours on end, weaving thoughts into words, adding a new thread to his fabric of narrative with each sentence. Every word he wrote was a testament to his unwavering dedication to literature, and with each passing moment, he felt himself becoming more and more immersed in the magic of storytelling.

It was when he confronted something. Even though he wasn’t famous, and even though he wasn’t making a lot of money, he felt happier than he had in years.

Because he was doing what he loved. And that, to Abhay, was all that mattered.

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Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of my imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. || Contents of this story should not be reproduced in any manner without permission.