Bits of purple confetti cloud your vision. A vision bright and steadfast; you are the Grand Dreamer. Your aspirations fill up all of the plastic in the room. Your lungs hold an impenetrable ambition that you exhale into the atmosphere.
But all you can think about is dying from starvation, and you’re not even actually starving. At least, not anymore. All you can think about is the ocean, and drowning in it because you wish you were so thin that the waves sucked you under and never let you breathe again.
Sometimes you don’t wish salt water to swallow you up and each exhale leaves you yearning for more oxygen. Yet you find yourself gasping for air every evening. Nothing that matters is concrete or measurable and there is nothing for you to hold on to.
You are thirty-two in two weeks time and it will take more than thirty-two years to learn to breathe. And be nourished. Nourishment you are immensely afraid of. Breath you can’t get control of.
You are frozen. Time ticks by before your deep blue eyes; your dreams dissipated, your ambition annihilated. You are here and here is nowhere.