Air

My greatest dream is to be self-sufficient, but how does one go about attaining that sense of independence? How do you find freedom while you're shackled by your demons?

I exist in a labyrinth—dark corridors perfumed by fear-induced smoke. Shallow breathing won't grant me escape from toxic fumes, and deep breaths won't consume me. I am not dead, yet.

There is no warmth in this labyrinth. Light neglects this place. Piercing winds rid my face of moisture and color. Though frigid and pale, I am not dead, yet.

There is no fruit in this labyrinth. Barren as it may be, a wasteland it is not. Death implies life once roamed through these halls, and that has never been the case. I cannot die here.

This labyrinth is a ruse—there is no escape, no light, no air—it is a personalized prison, and I am serving an eternal sentence. Its puppet masters toy with my willpower. The smoke I breathe makes me hallucinate. This smoke allows me to imagine light and warmth; I begin to experience hope. As the high progresses, a harsh, crisp air hits my face. My hallucinations cease. Memories of light and warmth are destroyed. I am not dead, yet. 

But I want to be.