1.24am, 16th January. 

Another one of those nights when I lost sleep, count sheep and battle myself. Up in arms in my mind. No shields, only swords and cutting words. Prepared to draw blood. 

Let the battle never end, until only one last thought stands. 


Perhaps I hold on to too much. Remembering the past, living the present and grasping the future. 

Looking at past faces, touching once familiar skins simply trigger so many sensations. Memories simply never die, or perhaps I just never let them try. Maybe that is because I am unsure of who I am so every struggle is my Girl Scout badge. Weak. No matter how rusted they become with time, I still pin them up on my sleeves. Hoping they still say something, though irrelevant. Who am I? Can I choose my lived experiences? And through my informed choices, derive a version of myself that I prefer? Or will everything constantly subconsciously affect me? Do I always get a conscious say in who I become day after day? 

Thinking. Thinking. Picking at Skin. Yelling. Breathlessness; lungs winded. Heart beating is all I can hear; emotions are winning. 

Sometimes I question how valid are my thoughts? Second guess, shut them down, silence. Let them crowd at the back of my mind until I burst. I recognise that I am an over thinker. But how do you identify when you are overthinking, and when you are simply considering all sides of a situation? Can I ever be fair in judgment? If I speak to myself, does that make my decision informed and my feelings valid? Are feelings ever not valid? Can I deny my feelings especially if the other person meant no harm? What does it mean to hurt someone? Does it matter if it is intentional or not? Why does this guilt of doubting someone causing me panic? It is my fault. Yes. I should apologise. But my intuition has never been wrong. My skin crawls and my teeth gnaws at my dry lip. Maybe I should apologise. My fault. Just trust and deny myself. It is too much. Yes, I am too much. 

Too much to handle. Too much burden.

My future is made up of choices. Like everybody else’s. I open so many doors for myself, in my mind, I don’t know where to go. I stay in the middle as the space swallows up. Black holes. A vacuum of time, space. Too many sounds to the point of white noise. Radio static? All the different voices taking over in my head. 

How temperamental. How unpredictable. 

My future is a roll of the dice at a hand I might not recognise. 

I am tired. I should sleep. The sheeps are dead and insomnia won. Blood, tears. Nothing. 


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