The fate of the floater is assigned by the minds of the bold, the beautiful, the mindful and the ignorant. Such is the world that I live in, anyway. Constantly envying the others and constantly talking when their eyes are closed and their ears are blocked and their backs are turned. I sit, constantly sit, under that white light. In that wooden chair. While the mystic police batter me with question upon question. I reply the best I can, watching them as they discuss my sentence. It is only when they tire of my fruitless answers and throw me back in my lonely one-windowed cell that my mind begins to function at a normal level.

           It is at that time where I find out how weak I truly am. My mask is reluctantly removed and the smoke and mirrors that is my false sense of security fades to a whisper. My heart sinks with the realization that I am not as strong as I thought I was. Or, I'm not as strong as I had hoped to be. Perhaps the real point is that I'm not as strong as I was before. Before what? Every night as I lie on the hard cell bed, the same questions repeat in my mind. Like a broken record I am forced to think about myself. The self that is really there and not the self that is the force field. I chuckle as I remember all those times that I let down my defences. I groan as I recall the times that people have gotten through them, but then I smirk as I remember how I retaliated. I threw back up my defences. Literally threw them.

           This pondering goes late into the night as the one-window throws different shadows across the faded stone walls. I am wondering now, not asking so many questions, just wondering. I wonder why my defences are so easily breached all of a sudden. I wonder how I let so many people walk on top of me and crawl under my skin. One person in particular. I wonder why I can't just spread my wings and soar above the clouds.

           I stare blankly at the cold grey ceiling, blinking in the mute darkness. How loud could I scream? Would anybody come running if I did? The black and grey of the cell presses around me. I know I cannot win. I am not strong. I am not brave. I am not big, nor am I intelligent. The only person I could beat up, physically as well as mentally as well as verbally ... Is myself. I have lost my heart. I have lost my soul. I have lost my mind. Who will accept me anywhere now that I am an empty shell of repeated questions? I feel like a genuine broken record as I finally drift off to slumber in my one-windowed cell.

           A thin ray of white light pierces the drabness of my jail. Key clink in the door\'s lock and a creak echoes off the walls as the exit to my cell is opened. These are the sounds I awake to every morning. The mystic police, in their faceless splendour, pull me from my confines and march me back to the dark room with the single chair and the white light. My mind is blank as they berate me with more questions. Another day has begun. This one holds no more promise than any other. Yet, as the predators circle around me, I recall a question from the night before. A single query from the time when my brain is working as it should.

           ...why am I so weak?