Disgruntled Post

Being paranoid has its charms. On most days, however, it is a weight that is pressed into my chest and makes breathing more difficult. The anxiety of when or how those around me will execute their secret plots against me haunts my days and I find myself running through several potential scenarios of situations yet to occur and predict their outcome. I meet the eyes of my colleagues and wonder just how much of the filth they see in my eyes, or the subtle twitches of  face and body that may foreshadow my vulnerabilities. Reality is an intricate puzzle when you have so few pieces.

I am in a constant state of agitation. My heart is a caged prisoner pounding at the walls of my chest; my mind a world-class sprinter racing towards the finish line; a concept I am yet to decipher, for there appears to be no end to this strenuous exercise.

Suicide is not viable. Therefore, the only option is to continue searching, pursue anything and everything that captivates me, and never cease to be curious. This all comes at a cost, and I pay my dues in dust and darkness.

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