I can do anything I want.

Ask a nine-year-old what you are capable of and you get a wildly generous answer. Ask yourself on an ordinary Tuesday and the list has quietly been edited down, mostly by things nobody ever said out loud: a subject you were bad at once, a comment from a teacher, a job that went to someone else.

Most ceilings are like that. Not walls, but assumptions that were never tested and have sat there so long they pass for architecture. You already do several things a younger version of you would have flatly refused to believe. Motorway driving. Speaking to a room. Whatever last year taught you.