I feel like dancing, a lot of the time. I feel like flying and doing cartwheels and jumping. I want to stop eating and become a light weight. I want someone to talk to and laugh with. I’m too afraid to do any of it. I’m not good enough to dance. Flying is impossible. I have never landed one cartwheel, correctly. And the jumping is nothing without the cartwheel. If I stop eating, I’ll die, but if I don’t, I’m not a feather. And worst, I’ve yet to find someone who will listen long enough and laugh. I ask for a lot, but expect nothing. My days are a jumble of success and failure in things I could care less about. The things I want to do are so far out of my reach. I don’t know what to do.
