Overthinking Inc

Ready? Good. That was your last breath for a while.

Here follows a sentence of unscrupulous constitution, frenzied delivery, indeed void of deliverance, having some sort of retroactive ponderance in thought yet weightless in flight of speed and assured in the righteousness of its litigiousness. Good job you pathetic speck. Does this literary opulence forge some false sense of foundation? Does such scrutiny, not act as such? All I know is I was shaking. Now I'm shaking less. Perhaps I'm just cold. Set the AC to warm. Still cold and lonely inside. I'm sorry I won't grant you a paragraph change. To communicate what's happening inside me, the stream must not be interrupted. This constancy of judgmental thought is bearable. It shouldn't be and I feel it. I'm just clueless to how not bearing it would be like. I'm taking a pity on you. Press enter. Done.

It is hard. Having come to the logical conclusion of love many times but not the physical one. Perhaps once upon a time. Long gone now. Even then the process, through no fault of it's own, developmentally challenged. Its ruination assured as life is assured. This, not a calming thought. It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. And now the realization strikes. That it won't and it shouldn't. I can't move forward said the man moving forward. If anyone could understand what these past 232 words are supposing, that's me, and I haven't the foggiest.

Another paragraph. I must really, like you. I must, really like me. I'm trying. I'm taking care of my body. It doesn't feel it. The mind knows it since it sees it. But the mechanism of feeling it, deep in my bones, is broken. That's why I'm terrified in hugs. Always the provider, never the recipient. That's why I won't move right, I won't sleep right, I won't eat right, I won't hope right, I won't dream right, I won't cry right, I won't love right. Yet I am doing all those things now. I just don't feel anything. It's all mental. Physical, is insecurity. Such magnificent in its lack of size insecurity. And yet logic fathoms just how enormous I am and what destruction I can spawn and what love I can present.

I'm tired. I just want some love, the meaning of which I'm ignorant about. Because trying all this time to be worthy of it, I missed out, still missing out on it, when the universe manifests itself in corporeal forms that walk around and smile at me and ask me to look up.

So, dear clueless, yes I'm talking to you, John, you mad typist. You, comma, whore. What's this aspiring to? Is it just venting some pressure? Who is reading it? Why? Who else? What's the point? Is there a point? Should there be? What if there is? What if there isn't? Nevermind. Nevermind? What do I need? Where do I breathe easier? What if I get what I want? What if I lose what I had? What of the past? What of incessant questions?

I think I'm overthinking things.