When I was a girl, they told me to be practical, But I was a dreamer.
No misgiving, the fire of dreams getting higher, flames spreading to the bedroom windows, kindling in my soul, a smoldering fire. And down burned a house of doubt, a place of skepticism and realism, all lost to that fire.
Dreams replace doubt, the way spring replaces winter, and winter, autumn. The eye cannot see, what the heart promises.
Dreamers start to dream, and see, not only in black and white, but real, living colors. We see potential and possibility. We are skies without end, wild horses without reins. We are your sister, your brother and your friend. We are the bumbling man in the corner store, the forsaken beggar in the street, the woman in white sitting outside a church, formless beneath her dress. We are in regions of terror, in sprawling forests, on big city cobblestones, through unbroken fields, where grass stands above my summer skinned knees. We walk through this fire, the torches of others, scorching our skin, but never the soul, and with dreams that are akin to the wings of a phoenix bird, we rise from surrounding ashes.
And I go on, wherever it may be, because the future is now mine, and I’m not afraid. I go on, because I believe in better days. And the chances, I will take them.
When I was a girl, they told me to be practical… But I chose to be this dreamer.
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