I used to have a lot of dreams. I guess I still do. I wanted to become an author, an artist, a doctor. I wanted to be beautiful. I wanted to have a family with a successful, loving husband and lots of wonderful kids. I wanted to be rich. I wanted to be famous. When I was a kid, I used to have so much passion for life. Now I have goals. I've become a cynical realist. I still dream, but when I come back to reality I merely scoff at myself and move on. I don't have any grand expectations for my life. I no longer expect to suddenly find my soul mate, get the job of my dreams, or have the body I so desperately crave. Yet I still dream about it because I'm desperately grabbing at anything that will tie me down to this pathetic life in the hopes that somewhere I will find the will to live again. To find that passion again. Yet, I know it's hopeless.
