Fulfilling. Self-Fulfilling.

Like most everyone else, she liked to play at oracle. As a kid she dreamt up which kind or colour of car was going to pass by next. She imagined being able to tell the colour by listening intently to the sound, at times really believing it was true. She touched tall grass leaves for luck and counted the in-betweens of pavement lining, not letting her shoes touch those crazy boundaries. Her walking was rhythmed by tunes in her inside world moving forward with her, like a butterfly, like a growing force field, like a meandering swallow, making her heart lighter and, every now and then, making her voice heard in the outside world.

I cannot breathe today. Nor write. It does not travel. Academia is a world I cannot enter.

How can those who do not know me understand?