It is really complicated being inside my own head.

There are numbers in there that have
nothing
to do with logic.

There are fragments of memories that
may
or may not
be real.

There are completely intact dreams that
I'm pretty sure
really happened.
Or, at least,
they happened on a
more real level
than what's really
happened.

And then there's this bitter old man
who criticizes my hypocrisy.
And let me tell you -
he is one unforgiving, miserable,
person.

Next to him is this sweet lady
who's always telling him:
"Oh shush, she's doing her best".
But she's often too soft spoken
to really make him listen.

There's this crowd of activists who are
usually
screaming
to be taken seriously.

And a young teenage girl
in the middle of them,
who just wants to be like
everybody else.

Often, she's accompanied by
her older brother who
never
fails to remind her of how
idiotic
her aspirations are.

And all the while that they're
screaming,
and sighing,
and crying,
and keeping quiet,
they are breathing the air of
my mind -

a swirling,
whirlwind of
passion
and fear.