We sip morning coffees as the world is flying past, stumbling through the first few pages of our autobiography. We have walked these streets and turned these corners a thousand times, but there are millions to come. We talk about future the way we hear others talk about their past, dreamily and pieced together, the pages blurring, rewritten by the present. Like fairy tales we utter our memories to come over and over, redrafting and advertising them with such conviction, as if we are the only authors. Daydreams of happiness and fame, of days at the sea, acceptance speeches and baby showers. They wash over us and comfort our solitude and our uncertainty with half-truths and what ifs. But we are young. When is the time to dream, if not now? When do we plot maps to the unreachable unknown and write our acceptance speech and organise our evolution? If not now? When nothing is certain, everything is possible. I could be an astronaut or a queen or journalist. I could travel the world or change it. Let us dream our improbable dreams until we shoot for our impossible goals. We might not land on the moon, but at least we saw the stars.


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