"Better to sell a dream than to cut it down to size," a friend of mine writes.

It got me wondering - whatever happened to my dreams? For that matter, what were the dreams I had? I remember half-baked goals and ambitions which were stated in jest, but other than aiming to work in London or New York one day, I can't seem to recall any one serious dream I had. And that's rather bewildering.

I don't know if it's because I didn't have any in the first place or if I've allowed myself to become the kind of person I said I would never want to be when I graduated - the kind of person who's rationalised her current situation even if it's not the ideal she hoped it would be, the kind of person who's grown rooted to where she is because "things could be worse."

These days, I feel rather lost, still searching for the kind of person I want to be, for the kind of things I want to do. At the same time, I acknowledge that I'm almost comfortable where I am. I make a decent living, I have great friends and family. Singapore ain't so bad, I think to myself at times. Not to mention the fact that in spite of my rather angsty writing, I usually choose the most pragmatic course of action. I mean, to give up everything I have here, and go to another city and start over... it's a scary thought. And life here, as I stated earlier, is not that bad.

Have I allowed my dreams to be cut down to size? For that matter, was I the one who did the cutting?