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The hyper-analysis of every breath, every twitch of the face, every flick of the eye. A million thoughts per second envelope the words I’m hearing— the tones, the voice, the wavers and the pauses. The hand gesture, the turn of the head, the repositioning of the body. A million minuscule details and every one of them occupying a space so vast in my brain, pushing it against my skull, spreading it like a paper-thin, outer rim of necrosis. And among this inflow of lunacy—in the same unending, unmoving, insurmountable moment in time—my brain is desperately trying to quantify and qualify, analyze and summarize, and digest the data into information that is yet again further refined into actionable plans and algorithms, underneath which there are a million considerations and a million pathways. Before every step, during every moment, after every decision and spanning the whole length of a life paralyzed by an overactive, unproductive and cruel mind. It’s a thousand bolts of lighting hitting my consciousness every terrible waking second. It’s thousands of ants crawling inside my skull, restless, ever-moving in mass psychosis and irritated by the pungent, intolerable, suffocating aroma of the amalgamation of my fears, my terrors and my nightmares. I am compulsive in my thinking, unable to put a stop to, nor rest from, the continuous droning of my mind. I am an overused CRT screen that was plugged in the wrong voltage for a millennia too long, now unable to produce anything but static, and unable to unplug itself, forever screeching out an unbroken high-pitched keen for its impossible death.
I am fucking tired.