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We Are Our Own Dream

I'm tired of the word unrealistic. It's a word born of dying imagination, an unfortunate side effect of mental laziness of a convergent society. As the electronic brain of the world connects us to one another, bringing thousands of souls in contact across nations and oceans, the decay of the dream worsens with every idea shot down before it can flourish.
Staring down the face of the singularity of humanity, we must choose, as we always have, to stand above the ruthless simplicities of existence and look for something more. To dream, to find the ways in which we are so much more than our parts. To explode beyond constraints, to challenge what holds us, to make real that which is not.
Our definitions change, because they have always changed. Since the day the first human spoke, what is real has been evolving and changing.
I say again, I am tired of the word unrealistic creeping into our minds, our stories, our visions as a crutch for laziness, a platform for constriction. A piece of reality will always be what we make it, what we dream it, a sliding scale of existence, a spectrum. Unrealistic is what was said about wielding fire, about building monuments. It was said about cell phones, about controlling electricity, about reaching the sky, about searching the stars for something more.
And each time, with our inevitable desire in one hand and our ruthless determination in the other, we reformed reality.
And so we must go. For we are our own dreams made real.
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