I’m a shameless idealist.
I dream and birth a life that is drenched with hope that knows not of pessimissim.
I do not care for realism—I’m too busy impractically picking buttercups, writing poems about fireflies, swimming naked with glee, having coffee with strangers, setting unrealistic intentions for love.
It allows me to wish greatly, with untainted hope for our planet, our people.
It allows me to dream magic, yes real magic into existence—for I believe we are all connected and I, along with others, am powerful beyond comprehension with enough will.
It gives me the power to scoff at societal shoulds and say, “I do not wish children, or a mortgage. If I marry we will all be naked and give the money we would of spent on suits and silk to schools educating girls in Afghanistan!”
I don’t wish to talk about the sun blowing up or how doomed our younger generations are.
I believe they will learn from our mistakes—they will save the earth, bring the polar bears snow and stop our world from being taken over by drones and robots.
I know we will eventually break up with our screens.
I do not pay close attention to the news, because it pumps fear and lacks the joy that I live for.
I am a utopian who gazes at stars, a visionary who shoots from the hip, walks in my power and holds people accountable with all my might.
I trust people before I know them.
I give fourth chances.
I forgive easily.
I can fall in love in four hours.
I’m too busy loving this world to begrudge it of its fear and hate.