When I was really young, 7 or 8 years old, a kind American neighbour gifted me her childhood copies of the first 5 Little House books. I read them, and loved them, and grew up re-reading them every so often. I think in the second book, Laura and Pa build a log house together. The book explained the entire process of how they built it. And ever since then, I’ve dreamed of building a log house, or at least of building my own little reading cabin or a tree-house. But as of late, I’ve realised that in me getting older and bigger, so many of my dreams have gotten smaller. All I now occasionally fantasize about is building a book shelf from pre-processed slabs of wood. I’m pathetic. I used to dream of my own farm or a ranch, of cows and stables and horses and big fields to gallop through. Now I occasionally find myself wishing I had a horse I could ride, as we trot along the patches of green that line Islamabad’s roads. I still dream big about some things, but those things, when I think about them, feel so… corporate and capitalist. I want to be a writer, yes. But I also want to be big in publishing. I dream entreprenurial dreams of business and startups. I get almost as excited about networking as I do about making new friends. And I understand that politeness is a good thing, but it means just smiling and patting their back when someone you actually don’t feel yourself getting along with hugs you and that makes me feel so fake. There are so many aspects of growing up I like though. I love that I grew up to be someone who thinks so much (it’s tiring and gets me in trouble but I maintain that it’s a good thing to do), someone with so many opinions, someone who dreams, albeit differently. I just hate that all the magic in everything is gone.