I am a goldfish. I am a small goldfish, in a small bowl. Unable to swim in a long, straight line, I am confined to days of endless circling. I can only grow as much as my bowl allows, which leads to feeling trapped. I know I have potential to grow to great sizes, but I cannot, for my bowl prevents me from doing so. My attention span is short, for there is so much to see, so much to do. I forget, of course, that there really isn’t. My vision is merely obscured by the curve of the glass, and I see the faint outlines of everything beyond. I long to see what is beyond my cage, but I feel as though I cannot leave the water. The cold, stale water that has been my source of meager survival. People look inside, and goggle at my existence, believing I am beautiful. Beyond their sight, I am struggling. My open mouth is screaming, but they cannot hear me. I’m exhausted, and I sit at the bottom of my bowl. I hear muffled outside voices: “Lazy.” “You aren’t even trying.” “If you applied yourself, you could leave this place.” “You must like it in there, you aren’t even trying to leave.” They never saw my frantic swimming, my desperate attempts to escape. Instead they only see me trying to catch my breath in liquid that offers my strained gills no relief.