Racing thoughts are not an
internal contradiction.
It's not crying while laughing.
It most certainly is not an inept,
young adult that describes
their mood-swings as being "bipolar."
Don't fret,
because I will explain,
in depth.
At this given moment I can list pages upon pages of what it isn't. And that's the point, maybe, considering that these racing thoughts have created enough points to produce a stippling picture of an overall paranoia.
Four days into this headache, an unattainable inquiry is not reason.
It's not reason.
Not reason.
Not reason.
At this point in my life there is nothing to achieve by convincing strangers of my sanity. No matter how many times I may try and blink a person away, it just leaves me with tired eyes, and in the end, less credibility. I'm gasping for air with a plastic bag wrapped around my head, praying that my body can find peace and not twitch. But I'm fooling myself, like a friend, your friend. One that exclaims love and intimacy, but is given a kiss on the forehead, blocking my third eye.
Then after a tumultuous day of unknowing and racing thought, I'm left in a neurotic state, waiting for a cool down period before I'm left
toxic and unwanted.
