He ran as fast as he could. He took a new jogging route. Instead of the usual coastal front, he decided to head towards the village center. The sun poured down its light like melted gold, silhouetting the vehicles, lampposts, trees and structures. The air was still–there was no humidity nor breeze. He made a trail of dust on the unpaved roadside as his cross trainers struck ground. The village was smaller than he had originally anticipated.

To dream is to be, to foresee the possible, the potential. A dreamer perchance, a hopeless romantic perhaps. Dream and devour the world as if it’s your own canvas. Freely draw your brush against its landscape. You’ll be right sometimes, you’ll be wrong sometimes. Some of the time, you wouldn’t know if you’re right or wrong. You’ll just be yourself unabashedly reckoning with the triad of life, the universe and everything else; looking for truth.