Telling other people my dreams hardly ever works out well. No sooner have I begun – exhilaration brimming in my mind, pleasure tingling in my toes – that they rush to caution me, to tell me all the reasons why my idea is doomed to fail. 

So and so, the lady next door, some tycoon celebrity thinker has told a story of exactly the pitfalls at the centre of my idea, already explained just why my desire is doomed. Or their very own experience points to the absolute and sure unfeasibility of what my heart yearns for. Best not to try, they say, concern marking their brow, my best interests sitting high up on their chests.

Killjoys and Naysayers are not out to stab me. They present as guardians of my soul, but their cautionary tales swiftly snuff and wipe out my sparkle. Dry up the swell of my virgin dreams.

Hold quiet I tell my chafing self. Be still and hold your tongue. Let your ideas grow and become, so others get to see something real. They need to actually see first. Oh but how my heart longs to tell all, to frolic with another in the joy of expectation, before any of it has come to life!