I took this photo tooling through tiny villages on a back road in southern Spain more than a decade ago. The dreams I had then were nothing like what my life is now; I was beginning to be tired & have daily headaches, but had yet to fall into my fatigue. Life still felt wide-open and unlimited.
I wouldn't change the life I have now for the dreams I was building then. So I wonder: is it the dreams themselves that make us feel alive, or is it the act of creating and nurturing them?