Am I the one in control of my thoughts? If not, who is? Am I the person experiencing self-pity over each moment of despair? Am I here to live, or am I only here to prevail?
A thank you to “me.”
I am not the same person as the omnipresent spirit that has unpacked her belongings behind my eyes. That person is intelligent, wise, and knows when and how to say everything. Each word she has spoken was carefully prepared in the back end of my thoughts. She is the one who permits the hungry, gaping blackhole of my detrimental worries to overcome my reasoning. Her obsolete intentions match mine but to a wider extent. She has a purpose; does that mean so do I? This person knows each uncanny fact about me that I am ill-informed of, desperately waiting for the perfect moment to tell me. She knows my weaknesses, but I do not know hers.
My internal guide has always directed me with intention. She is capable of grabbing the fiery words from my throat before permitting me to hurt someone I love. This person advises me of the danger of not following stringent rules. Without her, my life would be pandemonium.
Although I can not see her, I can feel her presence. When that tormented storm formulates in the helpless pit of my stomach, I know she is here, ready to steer me away from the scandalous path I am blindly walking on. Although its position throws me into a state of panic, I embrace her arrival, for I no longer have to make the agonizing decisions.
I am forever grateful she chose me. These longing spirits come in various figures; however, few people are blessed with the gift of its imperative characteristics. I know having her directing the production I call my life can be dangerous. I may go too far and never experience the fun in danger. I may come off as too defensive or opinionated. However, at the end of the battle, she is my shield. My protector. I would not bargain her away.
My thoughts are my haven. They understand and respect me and know my meaning without a futile explanation. I turn to them for comfort and safety, a place deprived of judgment. No one can be certain of where my thoughts rest. My thoughts are my courtroom. The prosecution rises and accuses the defense of being too hurtful and damaging, while the defendant protects their case in hopes of granting permission to erupt into a molten volcano of emotions. Alas, the judge will conclude that the makeshift human will stay quiet, protecting her reputation as an understanding person.
Thank you for taking care of my thoughts when I begin to lose them in the swirl of my anxiety. Thank you for being my support and my structure. Thank you for being the person whose arms I fall into, the person who I would trust to save my life when no one else stays with me. Thank you for knowing me.
My head appears to be a small, empty area, yet it is intruded with pervasive thoughts and stagnant advisors. I wish to be able to express my thinking in an understandable way, but for now, it can only be understood by the wise voice in my head, ensuring that I will be okay.
