My eyelids droop and the lashes cling together, zipping my eyes closed. My skin is clammy. I feel every minuscule particle of grime clinging to my feet. My breath does not fill my lungs: it slides halfway down my throat before being thrust out by my impatience. My hair is incurably greasy. My lips are cracking and crumbling. The itch on my shin sends disproportionate waves of discomfort through me. My left foot presses into the tile at an angle and my damaged ankle groans in protest. The blemishes crawl on my face like tiny pests. Skin on my thighs sticks together where my legs cross. Lingering taste of another boring meal, eating purely to stay alive, nauseates me. I feel queasy as the greasy supper travels through me.
My otherwise useless right hand props up my weighted head and the permanence of my fatigue nearly shocks me. But I am past the point of caring now. Hours of mindless activity followed by hours of mindless complacency have rendered me dull. An eternity of the melancholy, the everyday, has left me feeling so empty. I don’t look around myself and see wonder and excitement. I feel disgust at how I have squandered what my mind and body could do. I am too tired.
I glance at my chair and see how the fat of my leg has compressed into ugly dimples of cellulite. My body mimics the stale, disinterested state of my mind. I sit and dream of ‘next year’ and ‘tomorrow’ but today I am nothing.
Today. I am nothing.
I wonder at adventures I will embark on. I desire health and purpose and prosperity but today I am a shell. I say to myself: You are only seventeen. You can’t go yet, you can’t be that yet. You can’t have adventure, or love, or health, or purpose yet.You must just wait a bit longer (just wait).
What happens when I am twenty-seven and I am still clammy, clouded and stale?