It started when she was little. The mother had such high expectations of her. The mother had given up so much and wanted so much for her child to have every advantage in life. So the mother dreamed. And eventually the mothers dream somehow became her dream, even though she hadn't chosen it. How could she disappoint the mother, the one who loved her so much and had such high hopes for her. So she worked to achieve the dream that was really the mothers. But when she began to only live the mothers dream, she stopped allowing herself to dream for herself. She was trapped in a world she hadn't created.
That's when she discovered books. The were like a magical answer to all her problem. Her head no longer had to be empty, it could be fulled, with the hopes and secrets of others. It could be filled with stories and knowledge. But pretty soon she couldn't help but dream. All those books she read trying to fill up her head with other peoples dreams began to have it's own. She couldn't help herself, she began to dream. She panicked.
She began writing, to put these dreams and thoughts and ideas muddling her mind on a piece of paper instead of locked inside her head. Once she got them all out her mind was clear again, filled only with the dream which wasn't really hers. More ideas kept coming and she just kept writing them all down. People said she wrote beautifully, wondered where she had gotten such talent. She never told anyone, because how do you explain that your writing is really just your mind trying to be free when you wont let it. Before her mother tried to make this part of the dream, she said it herself. This kept it as her own thing, her mother could never make it otherwise
As she grew up, the mothers dream was always there. Eventually it was forgotten that it was the mothers dream and it became hers. She had forgotten that she had added to the dream, to at least make it part her own. She forgot that she wasn't free. She thought it was what she wanted and that she was free. Yet she still read. She didn't remember that it was her way of fining freedom. She still wrote. She didn't remember that it was her way of keeping focus on the dream, which wasn't really hers. She forgot what true freedom was, forgot that she had given it up to please another.