Cynicism is easy; dreams are hard. Stephen Colbert once said cynicism is self-imposed blindness.
It’s effortless to sit in an armchair and lob stinging barbs at the world, call oneself satisfied, cloak fear and hurt in the folds of wisdom.
We suffocate inklings of faraway adventures or new selves, leaving such idleness to children, holding our adult ideals in a death grip.
And that makes me sad. Because dreams form the fabric of our lives, can be discovered in the doodles of our notebooks, our computer wallpaper or what we tune into on television. Literally, imaginings of who we should be are everywhere.
You just have to look.
As I gaze forward after launching Nomadic Chick a year ago, this site may be new, but my dreams were germinating seeds in my mother’s womb. As old as the wind.
Next year rests on swampland, could sink downward any second, but I float above untouched, because no matter what transpires I am encased in gold. A Fort Knox of memories, that were realities, that were tossed away as once unreachable make me a helium balloon. Weightless and uninhibited.
Clocking the steady lines of the prairies on the Greyhound from Calgary to Moosejaw. The night I hobbled with sore feet through Manhattan and witnessed Times Square come alive under an electrician’s wand. Riding an elegantly designed train from Copenhagen Airport and disembarking into a Carl Nielsen concerto. København stilled my breath. Giddy with