DARE TO DREAM AND DARE TO ACT

Kenny squinted at the yellowed, discoloured pages of his journal. The words swam before him, blurred by the sheen of sweat on his brow. The air in Johor Bahru was stifling. It squeezed into his lungs like a tight fist, matching the churning inside. His plan was laid out: photography business, colourful and alive! This was his idea—a business that was a world away from the sterile corporate photography that dominated the scene. Every detail was spelled out: what kind of camera, what kind of clients—everything was there on those pages. But the words were empty; they had no meaning because he had done nothing.

He was a wizard of the mind, a dreamer cocooned in the chrysalis of his own psyche, his thoughts and ambition a swarm of complex ideas, yet fear, a spider, had spun a web of trepidation, and he was now ensnared in its silken trap. The simple act of taking a single step towards realising his dream, of leaving his comfort zone to confront the real world, seemed enough to unleash a virulent form of terror upon him, one that threatened to paralyse him into a prisoner of his own making, until he might eventually perish from a stifling shadow of his own once-bright candle.

His city, revisited but with a new lens, had become a symbol of his stagnation. Every colourfully painted shopfront, every buzzing street corner murmured a muted insult: You can dream it, Kenny, but can you do it? The market stalls, the spice-scented rumble of customers, the meat grills lit up like charcoal hearts—this was a cacophony of life in contrast to his own quiet nothingness. He saw the passion in the chef’s hands and the pride on the baker’s face when she perfected her loaves. They weren’t afraid to fill their work with life, to put their heart and soul into their craft, and to let their actions speak louder than any document on paper.

As he watched him from under the streetlamp one night, the shop’s neon glow cast a silhouette of the young street vendor, whose teenage face, illuminated by the flicker of his fire, silently cheered him on. Because if it is true that it was we, hitherto happy victors in the ever-turbulent yet serene world of ‘professional’ titles, who had succumbed to the disease of fear, then this young man, who had risked everything to earn a livelihood on the pavement, was the healthier one. Because it took courage, this mad passion, to leap into the unknown, to just be, and to keep on playing.

Kenny was touched, an ember of hope catching in his chest. He shut his journal, no longer a document of defeat but a blueprint for his future. He would no longer let fear be his master. He would study the street seller, the baker, and the countless others who have dared to dream and who have dared to act. And so each morning he woke up and found himself suddenly motivated; he didn’t think too much about the direction in which he was going or how he must be like other photographers. He just did it. He picked up his camera, which had an imposing, reassuring heft about it, and went out into the city. He photographed the sunlit bustle of the market, the hushed calm of the mosque, and the fizz of the streets. He was now a man who had taken the first step.

He began by simply offering his services to friends and family, and then to any customer he could find among the local businesses, daring to make mistakes, to learn from them, to see where they led him. The fear was still there, of course, but it was no longer paralysing; it was a challenge, a motivation.

Days became weeks, weeks became months, and gradually Kenny’s photography found its voice. He perfected a style that captured the rhythm of Johor Bahru, the city of both tradition and modernity, street life, and quiet moments of reflection. His clients began to seek out his vision, his ability to see the beauty in the mundane.

It wasn’t easy: there were days when he lost faith, there were days he got irritated, there were days when he got anxious, and there were times when he despaired of ever making it. But Kenny kept going. He was determined. His passion became his propulsion. He wasn’t a dreamer any more; he was a doer. He’d learnt the truth of the old proverb: ‘Talk is cheap.’ You can think and plan. You can dream all you want. But you have to jump. You have to step out of the boat.

As the sun sank into the horizon, turning the sky orange and purple, Kenny could hardly contain his joy. He was finally reaping the rewards of his labour. He was finally seeing the results of his journey—the proof of the pudding. He had escaped the prison of his own fear, the confines of his mind, and come out the other side to a place of strength and resilience. He had traded in his comfort zone for the open road, and he was riding it like a wave. He knew it probably wouldn’t be easy, but he was ready. He had his camera. He had his passion. And he had the courage to act.