Every day is made of 86,400 seconds. 86,400 battles with my brain, no backup troops or a new plan. It is just me, fighting a war against myself. Often, I lose, tripping over the dirt as the words barrel out undeterred. Sometimes I try to catch them on the way out, the way that my classmates would lurk and scare me as I exited with books in hand. I would usually scream. The classroom was underground because the school was built on a hill, so the only natural light was a good ten feet high and filtered through windows. The shadows were elongated by the angles, and I could practice ballet in the empty room. Lifting my chin up and making shapes with my arms until I don’t seem like one of those dolls. The wooden ones, that artists use to practice anatomy and poses. Brandeis blue I shake myself out of the dream, so lucid that it could become a memory if I’m not careful enough. The lines between days have long since blurred out from specific moments to cloudy hours, with the ...