When You Feel Stuck Inside Your Own Head

I’m inside my shower head that’s inside my shower and I’m tired of all of the monologues. The dialogues. Or diary logs, really. The conversations. The questions, The answers. The revelations. The epiphanies. Who’s there usually but me myself and I: the human diary of repeated scratches of words dressing up wounds.

It’s been three decades of them. I am shaped by them. I am worn by them. They tap into my bones and then my organs. Sometimes all at once.

They wreak havoc on the state of my soul and the dams in my eyes. They control what I am and, dare I say, who. They say when I am not anyone at all, and when I’m the only one too.

I’m exhausted. By life. By what I think it is. What I have made it. What I haven’t.

I’m beat down by these verbal assaults my mind has always had with itself and I am shattered by the blind eye of my heart and cold shoulder of my soul.

I am withered. Weathered. By both storms and by sun.

I am deceived by my thoughts despite the truth that I created them.

I type but my hands hurt. I think but my brain bursts. I love, but my heart throbs. I pause, but my pain sobs.

I’m still inside my head and I don’t know that I’ve ever been anywhere else.

I’m still inside my head, and although it’s done so much thinking, I’d almost forgotten I’m too tired of thought.

That’s when the shower talks and the tiles stalk, telling me it’s so tired of that head I’ve got and the mind inside it. That same mind that mumbles while my rage rumbles. The water is hot. It has to be hot, the hottest of hot. I need the burn. I need something, I need anything at all just to remember what it feels like to feel.

I’m tired of me, but I’m the only thing I can be, so I get out of the shower, trying to get out of my head, and I realize all this thinking sounds so much less like the living and more like the dead.