She was old, wrinkled and she was thinking things over.
Was she content with her lot? She had been through so much, it was almost impossible to know where to begin fathoming the answer.
Souls don’t wrinkle
So, there she was, thinking things over, as was her habit. Her thinking wasn’t wrinkled. Neither was her soul. Souls don’t wrinkle. They don’t scar either. Souls don’t scar, because what afflicts the soul can never heal. Never ever.
She thought about how she’d endlessly thought about what might happen in the future, what might afflict her soul. It was invariably linked to her children, husband, family or friends. Yet, she’d now come to realise that you could never conjure up everything, even if it had already happened.
She also recalled how she didn’t believe in the future – wait a minute – what she’d really meant by this was that she didn’t believe in a planned future. She hadn’t believed that she’d one day be dreaming about the past either, furrowed by wrinkles and some ten centimetres shorter. About that time she didn’t even dare to dream of how she would be cured of Parkinson’s.
So, that was what she was thinking of… old, wrinkled and what have you.
She starts to write. It’s a letter to her 50-year-old self. Her 50-year-old self who has a few wrinkles of her own, but definitely not as many as now.
“Dear 50-year-old me, I want to whisper a few words in your ear.
You don’t yet know what’s going to happen and I’m not going to tell you. Firstly, you’d only broadcast it worldwide in one of your blogs, basically spilling the beans. Secondly, knowing what will happen in advance, is just not how it works. What I will say though is that you’ve ten fingers and a reasoning head at your disposal (note that I didn’t say ‘reasonable’ – you know very well why that is). You’re going to use those ten fingers and that reasoning head to dream our dreams, until our dreams are dreams no longer. You’re going to use your writing to connect those millions of dreams of people with parkinson’s. And two years from now, at the World Parkinson’s Congress in Kyoto, you must try to capture the dreams of all those with Parkinson’s. After all, you’re an Official WPC Blogger Partner, so it’s your job.”
She is old, wrinkled and thinking things over. A faint smile playing on her lips. She kept on dreaming even when she no longer dared to dream, even when she didn’t dare to admit that she kept on dreaming. Even when she saw despair, rebellion and impotence in the eyes of those friends with Parkinson’s. Even when she saw that same despair, rebellion and impotence reflected in her very own soul. Even when she saw concern in the eyes of her husband and children.
And she whispers to her 50-year-old self:
“Don’t forget – if you’re the Official WPC Blogger Partner, then you’re also the Official WPC Dreamer Partner.”