It’s not like I don’t know there’s something wrong. When you sit inside your head for sport you know you’ve only got two optimal futures: either you end up a genius or you land yourself a number as a psych ward junkie.
You get sick of the simultaneous batter of words that spill through your mind in the miscellaneous milliseconds of annulled dialogue. Two of one voice, the rational and the irrational, or perhaps, the wise and the knowledgeable, or maybe neither. One says Dear God over the other that says Dear ME since one hopes and the other fears. I feel it’s childs play. Nobody hears. I hear. They’re stuck there. A battle of body, mind, and soul. I swear by the soul for there is no other explanation for the simultaneous ramble that tires my head. It frustrates me. When I pray. Do I not talk to myself? Where do the words that I want God to hear go, but jostle around in my thick skull for the split moments I bear them in mind?
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