The crowd is so full that it seems more like an it than a them, some impossible amalgamation of life and expectations. It is full, so full, of people. So many people that their faces blur into one another, the only face that hasn’t become one with that tidal wave of anticipation being mine.

I stand above the crowd I’ve always been a part of. I stand there, staring, wondering why this has happened to me, of all people, a college dropout who can’t even decide what to eat for dinner. I stand there, some nigh holy figure in the crowd’s thousands of eyes, and I curse whatever mischievous imp watched _Freaky Friday_ and swapped me with one of the most prolific speakers of the century.

“And now for what you’ve all been waiting for!” The guy with the microphone that I should know the name of but don’t because I’m not actually supposed to be here says, all white teeth and obnoxiously tall hair. “I am honored to present Dr. Alex Fernandez!”

It’s as if I’m a puppet, yanked forward by invisible strings. I’m wearing a suit. I’ve never once worn a suit in my life, not even at my senior prom, where I chickened out and didn’t ask Megan Brooks to dance.

A light shines in my eyes and the crowd disappears in the ensuing blindness. I can hear it, all hushed whispers and awkward shuffling. Someone coughs.

“You told us that you have finally figured out the answer to the age-old question,” the man who introduced me says. His voice is strangely low, like he’s telling me a secret. I imagine that’s what he’d sound like if he were to tell someone about his hair care routine, so self-important. “So… what _is_ the meaning of life?”

Cool sweat sticks uncomfortably to the back of my neck where my skin meets the collar of my shirt. It itches. I am terrified.

My mouth moves for me. Between loose lips comes out words I don’t mean to give. “I shouldn’t be here.”

The crowd falls silent for a moment, then the whispers start up again, the spotlight making me uncomfortably warm. It’s hot, but my sweat is cold.

I feel bad. I probably just wreaked more havoc on Dr. Fernandez’s life than he’s ever done to himself. I wonder what he’s doing in my body. I’m so shocked by my own blurted fears that it doesn’t seem to matter what he could be doing to my life.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I repeat, swallowing thickly. The microphone clipped onto my collar catches the sound and it echoes out against the walls of this strange colosseum. I’m facing the lion of my own panic, and it looks like I’m going to lose. “I shouldn’t be telling people the meaning of life. It’s… I shouldn’t be doing that.”

The crowd is silent again. Without the sounds, it’s like it really isn’t there. I can almost imagine the people aren’t, blackened as they are by the spotlight. But they are. They’re there, waiting for me to spill out great wisdom, unaware that I’m about to spill out my breakfast.

“Go home,” I call out to them, voice strangely cracked and desperate. “Go home. Live your lives. How am I supposed to tell you the meaning of life? Why do you trust me to do that? I don’t know you. I don’t know any of you.”

The man who introduced me is nodding along seriously, like I’m making any sense. His white teeth don’t shine obnoxiously in the encouraging smile he gives me. For some reason, it calms me down.

“Life isn’t one size fits all,” I say, heart pounding with adrenaline. I’m surprised the microphone doesn’t pick up the sound of it beating against my ribs, a cacophony of manic nervousness. “It’s… I can’t tell you the meaning of life. My life is different then yours. It… I shouldn’t be here. My life means something different than yours.”

Sweat drips into my eyes and I close them against the sting of it. A black wall greets me. No encouraging smile. No expectant crowd. Just me. Even in a different body, the world looks the same when my eyes are closed.

“I can’t tell you what your life means,” I whisper. I feel like crying. “Some of you have families and that’s your life. Some of you work and that’s it for you. Some of you are artists. Some of you are parents. Some of you don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time. I just know that I do my own thing. My life’s mine and what it means to me may not be the same as what yours means to you, so I shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. I don’t have your answer. All I’ve got is a load of half-baked notions about the future. Go _home_. Live your life however you want to. It’s yours, I don’t care what you do with it. Find your own damn meaning.”

My eyes shoot open when the first person starts applauding. It’s not just one person by the time I focus in on the sound and recognize it for what it is. It’s the whole audience. They’re applauding me and my confession of ignorance. They’re applauding me for telling them to fuck off and figure it out themselves. What’d I say? What’d I say that got them clapping like I had just promised them a million bucks each?

I looked at my host, the man with big hair, white teeth, and a surprisingly gentle smile. He nodded approvingly at me, a warm quirk to the edge of his lips.

“Well,” he says, sounding amused and pleased, “you heard the man. Go home. The meaning of life is whatever you make of it. Go make something good. Thank you for coming Dr. Fernandez! We’ll be seeing you again soon, I’m sure.”

_God, I hope not_, I think, then walk off the stage without any puppet controlling me.

When I wake up back in my own body the next morning, I wonder what the meaning of my life is, and find that I’m not too worried about it. Whatever I do, I think I’ll do something good.