"I am - and always will be - the optimist, the hoper of far flung hopes, the dreamer of improbable dreams."
I caught this quote on Pinterest the other day. It made me smile, mostly because I saw myself in it an awful lot. It was kind of a wry smile, though, and here's why.
In the age of internet glitter and pastel haired instagram hair flicks, being a dreamer and an optimist is the ultimate in new age freedom. Our sunny dispositions stick it to the man. They can't tame us. They can't take our dreams. Fuck you, conformity.
But here's the thing. When you're actually a dreamer, a hoper of far flung hopes, it's more often a curse than a gift. Yeah, I know, I don't sound terribly optimistic right now. But stay with me. I was staring at these tulips as the light fractured through the old windows of the cottage and it sent me into some sort of introspective daze. In any new situation, I'm blindly idealistic, everything will be rainbows and sunshine. This is it. This is gonna be perfect. I'm going to love this forever and ever. Turning improbable dreams into reality, I've learnt, isn't the challenge - it's what happens when you get to grips with that reality. All the imperfections of it, the disappointment. I'm learning to accept that maybe nothing will ever be as I dreamed it, in all my over-enthusiastic excitement, but that should never stop me from reaching for it anyway. From squeezing everything I can out of it. From delving head first into it.
An incomplete thought, I guess.