I feel imprisoned!

The walls that I'm trapped in between are closing in. With every passing second, they restrict inwards. There is nothing but darkness before my eyes. It makes no difference if I close them shut, or keep them wide open. All I see is black. 

The walls are ever so close. 

I can't breathe...

I must break...free!

That's how I imagine myself dying.

My claustrophobia has rendered me fragile. IRL, it isn't a box I'm inside; it's this world. I feel the edges moving closer, the whole earth deflating and becoming less spacious, making it difficult for me to breathe. There is just too much to take at once. Being an eighteen-year-old isn't easy.

For starters, my life was already messed up. Since birth. That's right. I don't know how I got through high school, but I did. The culprits were the last years of high school that I believe—I know—made me encounter the turning-point. And I chose wrong.

And now, I pay the price. Every day.

Our choices matter. One bad choice is equal to ten thousand lifetimes of misery. We must be wary during choosing.

As we grow up, everything takes the form of corridor bullies. Or, in my case, "everywhere bullies". You have to have the energy to deal with pressing matters, before they get the chance to deal with you. And when that happens, I know what happens.

Desolation.

It's like having flown into a flock of migrating vultures, instead of your own. Once you've been seen, you can't hide from them. Then, you must fly away as fast as your strength permits. You must do whatever necessary to escape. Or else, you'll be captured, bit, and killed.

I think I have flown into a group of even dangerous predators.

Campus life is, so far, unaffected. So far so good.

My major is taking over now. It's like I'm trapped in the loop of a flowchart. I can't seem to fulfill the condition that my enemies have implemented, to get out of the loop. And it's round and round; in circles, every glorious day.

I don't cry anymore. Even though I know it helps, I see it as a sign of weakness. I hold back my fountain, nice and tight, until the urge dissipates. But there are times, when I don't.

I ask you again, my tormentors: What did I do?

My claustrophobia isn't permanent. I do manage to get away from my pursuers. And it is then that I can breathe. But the getaway is terminal.

And the cycle continues.

I tell myself to be patient.

A permanent escape awaits; all I have to do is be patient, and walk my way to it.

It awaits.