I almost didn’t write this today.

I thought, fuck you guys, do you really care anyway? Do you even mind if someone has a dream? And if you don’t care, you are probably already parking me up in the ‘who the hell does she think she is anyway’ camp.

Becuase who the fuck are we anyway?

We might have cool ideas, we might want to change the world, but put heaven on hold that we get above ourselves. Don’t dream baby. Unless of course, you are reading a damn facebook platitude about following your heart or some other shite that makes you feel awesome for ten seconds but does nothing to get you in action.

Can you see the difference?

We are addicted to affirmations and profound quotes, but we must have hard factual evidence of our own personal greatness before we stick out our head. Our courage to take action must remain intellectual, least, we cast ourselves as ridiculous.

You see, I’m in mid battle and it’s fierce. I have a dream.

Oh, do I have a dream. One where millions of people are connected every day, out in nature, breathing together, taking notice of what our physical bodies give us. Being aware of the movement and senses that allow us to experience this wonderful gift called life. Thanking our bodies for the service they provide in the face of almost no attention.

It kills me that most of us (me included) almost never stop and become aware (let alone thankful) of our bodies unless they are doing something wrong – or painful. And then we hate them. We are annoyed and cross and aghast at ageing. We feel ripped off at any limitation we feel due to some lack in our physical self.

Do you think I’ve gone mad? Well, fuck you, maybe I have.

Maybe my dream is stupid. Maybe I’m not smart enough to see how crazy I am. Maybe I should buckle down and get a job where no one has to watch me make a dick of myself. Maybe I should tune out and leave the world change to someone else. Someone bigger, more onto it, more knowledgeable, more savvy, more connected, fuck it – skinnier, younger, more beautiful.

But I won’t.

Some days I wish I would. As I write this, I wish I could let go of making a difference. That I could be satisfied cooking for my family and choosing curtains for my living room. But when honesty butts her stubborn head up against authenticity, I know I can’t.

I can’t because I have my dream.

And my dream has to be bigger than my fear, doesn’t it? Doesn’t the dream have to somehow be put first, if we are to feel any sort of gladness to be alive?

You know what? Watch me leap. Of course, I will care if I fuck it up like I have a million other embarrassing, exhausting times. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Leaping is the point.

I’m not about to think leaping means the universe will automatically come up to meet me. I don’t see how my ability to manifest my dream has any relation to the extent I believe it’s possible. In fact, it’s nothing to do with mindset or faith or trust or positivity. On the other hand, hard-work, a robust plan, some experienced advisors and a good dose of luck might just do the trick, though.

What about you? Ready?