In my head, I see colors swirling. Deep golds and vibrant blues, shimmering greens and robust reds. Mixing, separating, fanning out to sparks from trumpets and drums. Clipped violins and reverberating guitars. Smells of cotton candy and soft pretzels. Crackling crushed ice that just melts on my tongue and dark chocolate whose flavor bursts and then deflates. Spinning echoes and twisting light. I'm not always happy, but I'm always me: thinking, talking, feeling, tapping, twirling, grinning.
But then I come here and everything inside me hums, falls out of tune, fades away to a flat gray. I smell chlorine and can't ignore the taste of sand in my mouth. Everything here is in slow motion, stuck, and I have to practice every form of tolerance. I become less than myself, not even a shell.
I don't want this fuzzy world. I want mine.