There is a struggle.
Not with the world, but with the voices-
an incessant jury lodged within my head.
"Slow down," they whisper. "But hurry,
for time is fleeting, and so is meaning."
Around me, everything totters.
The life I claimed to love?
They murmur: "Do you not see its futility?"
And so, the war continues,
each thought a blade,
each doubt an invader.
But suppose-
just suppose-
I awaken one day to find it all,
an elaborate mirage.
The war,
the wounds,
the shadows masquerading as my thoughts,
their whispers-the telepathy of futility-
all of it,
vain constructions of a mind,
adrift in its own abyss.
Why, then, do they persist?
The torments, the silent suffocation,
the cruel machinery of reflection,
each one grinding, grinding, grinding.
Overthinking has become
not just a habit,
but a condition of my existence.
Writer's note
I write because it's mine. My words, my voice, my truth. And in a world that's always trying to tell me who I am, writing reminds Me that I get to decide.