The day i quit swimming, my dreams began to die. I watered them diligently, but their roots were cut. Something was missing. They withered away like uprooted pansies, scattered amongst the terracotta shards of their lives.
and there, at the ripe old age of seventeen, i truly believed i had used…
Not only do I think this is beautifully written, but I’d like to relate by saying I find myself acting in a similar way for different reasons. Tragic externalities never afflicted me, and I try very hard to remind myself how lucky I am that my surroundings have always, and currently, stand stable and intact. It’s my lack of confidence and detachment from my art that leave me torn and hiding behind this same shield for protection. I don’t commit to anything I’m good at, because I’m afraid of making a decision that will label me and consume the free-self I inhabit now. Floating in limbo is comforting because it allows me to shirk all responsibility for the direction of my life.