I wish there was a term to describe the sensation
of thinking too much about the end....
and the shadowy outline of the plot in between.
Yet, when I look up from my phone to discover
the hours have flown by drowned in hyper, tuned voices
blended together,
bright, artificial colors radiating from a screen,
profanity and insensitive depictions of life
scattered across the interface of the internet
like shattered scraps of stars and meteors in the galaxy,
I realize that I wasn't ever really thinking at all,
drowning out life's mysteries in the undiscovered depths
of the ocean
and my quest to seek knowledge so expansive
that I'd wrap it around the universe twice,
I chose not to look outside and see the present forces of nature
and its boundaries in a world of mankind and destruction,
didn't really want to listen to what my parents
needed me to hear; the moments when I should've grown
a layer of maturity and capability to support us all
in an environment in need of drastic change
and improvement,
didn't say the words my brother needed to
hear and process;
the jumbled up pieces of advice and experience
from a responsible older sister who was able to
put on her big girl pants and educate him
about the crooked ways of the world,
and didn't build up the hard shell of defense
against the addicting symptoms of depression and anxiety
from a society that is materialistic, sensual,
and rotten to the core.
All this time, enveloped in the gray static of my own mind,
never able to break free because  I couldn't concentrate,
and there were so many things more appealing
that flashed across my screen,
so many other realities I'd rather live in.
In the end, it all just comes back to this:
my inability to be present and to feel worth in
my own existence as a human being.
I wish there was a term to describe a person who means well,
who can envision herself striving to become
a more dynamic, open, and thoughtful person
who used to be told by others that she worries and thinks too much,
who used to be able to feel the weight of her family's value
on her shoulders,
but who also now at the same time struggles
to stay and confront the cruel reality of the world that actually exists,
who can't help but flash pretty scenery,
and listen to flowing sugary words,
and stare at beautiful illusions across her screen
to keep herself sane and awake,
who has to convince herself time and again
of the evidence that she exists,
an entity that is just as much as everyone else
entitled to a sense of life,
and who needs to remember that pain
is something to learn and grow from,
not just an excuse to tune out from the world's problems
and forever dwell in gray mindless static.