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That moment when you’re walking down the street on a crisp, yet sunny almost-summer morning, and suddenly it hits you. Right in the stomach, a sucker punch: you used to harbour dreams. About who you would become and what you would be doing to make the world a better place, to be someone whose story would be remembered amidst the vastness of stories billions of people on this earth are weaving with each second that passes, each blink of an eye and each new moon that rises in the starry skies.

You used to envisage a house on the rolling hills of some Mediterranean country, with a view to the sea and a small, yet fruitful vineyard. And there you’d be, sitting in the cool shade on a perfectly sunny day, writing your second (or third book perhaps), immersing yourself in the stories you tell, giving yourself to the world bit by bit, and at the end of the day being more whole than you’d ever believed possible because you are being offered attention, shown curiosity, and just a minute amount of admiration.

You spread yourself too thin, allowing the small nags of life to become distractions by taking them too seriously, too personally. So now you have to ask yourself if you’re just going to give up on those dreams. Can you muster up new ones if you’ve decided those ones are no longer relevant?

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