I think and I think and I think.
Until the thoughts start thinking me.
It’s like being trapped in a room with my own mind — the walls covered in questions, the air thick with everything I’ve ever done wrong. I keep trying to find the one thought that will unlock the door, the one truth that will make it all make sense. But every time I get close, the door moves.
Thinking feels productive until it starts to hurt. Until it becomes a loop — an endless replay of memories, mistakes, what-ifs, and could-have-beens. I convince myself that if I analyze it just a little longer, I’ll figure out who I am, or why I keep ending up here. But the more I think, the less I feel. The more I search, the more lost I become.
People say “get out of your head” like it’s easy. Like it isn’t a maze with no map.
They don’t see the noise behind my silence — the war waged between logic and emotion, guilt and grace.
I think and I think and I think, until my thoughts start to drown me. Until I can’t tell the difference between reflection and self-destruction.
And maybe that’s the cruelest part — knowing that my mind is both the weapon and the wound.
Through the Fog 