There is this person I have become well acquainted with – one I spend far too much of my time thinking about. She is made up from a lengthy list that describes everything I am not, and she lingers in the back of mind whenever I imagine this make-belief life I hope to live. She is torn from pieces of other people that I have envied over the years, and portions of naive hope to try and combat my deepest fears. She likes the gym, she gets up far earlier than I ever do, and she throws on clothes without bothering to look in the mirror. She is not a goal, she is a daydream that goes against the rhythm of my life just to spite me, and I feed her every single day. She has never said the words “too much”, she doesn’t know what it’s like to feel tired, and she has no idea what it’s like to feel anxiety. She’s thin – maybe too thin, her skin is free of acne, her teeth are whiter, and her clothes are more expensive. She doesn’t ask about the food she eats before she eats it, and she isn’t worried about things like allergic reactions or panic attacks. And the worst part about her, is that I promise myself she is me, in a few weeks, or a few months, or a few years. I will get there, I will become this imaginary person that is made up of everything that is simply not me, and when I become this version of my own opposite, I will be happy, I will be free. One day, I will believe the words that come out of my mouth when I say I will be so much happier when I just accept me. One day, I will stop imagining my opposite and I will start working on myself. One day, I will look in the mirror less, but when I daydream I will imagine working on someone who still resembles the person I see, rather than the one I have made up. This could be what 22 is all about.