And whenever I try to move it, the lump’s still there. In my throat. I try to become better, to improve myself, but the lump reappears. It’s difficult to swallow. I might have to gather all my strength to digest it.
But the thought that my efforts are in vain is even harder to digest.
So I gargle. I cough. I try to shake it loose, even a little.
Yet the knot remains, taking up as much space as it can, growing, evolving like a malady, devouring every attempt I make to grow.
I look into the mirror, searching for my future self, but the image staring back is of a painfully ordinary person who never stood out.
Then I realise the mirror is made out of the same matter as the lump in my throat. And the room I’m standing in is a cavern deep inside my own mind.
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