A writer, maybe . . . because they could make people live or die by merely using their pens. I would make my readers laugh, cry or make them accept things or ideas they couldn't accept. I could praise them or sentence them to death. I could trigger them to generalize, specify conclude or infer. They could adapt to my ides or just leave them alone . . . unpondered, neglected, until they're forgotten . . . but I still hope that someday my ideas would be contemplated, digested and finally accepted.

There were, therefore, two side of the coin, to follow the footsteps of my parents or to follow my own feet to where they would take me. Yet, one thing for sure, the initial step was education.