Overthinking

I think about death, a lot.

I would say possibly, perhaps, maybe, definitely more than what you could consider “normal.”

Yes, I do have suicidal thoughts.

Regularly, might I add.

This doesn’t seem to bother me very much though.

What causes my heart to change its’ pace and my bones start to shake are the daydreams, or nightmares, rather, of everyone I love ending up in ashes in an urn on someone’s fireplace or put into a box into the ground for bugs to feast on.

These thoughts love to keep me awake when I so desperately need to sleep.

These thoughts love to interrupt me laughing and smiling with any of these said people I love so dearly.

No kidding.

Mid conversation...

“You’ll die someday. And I will be so sad.”

It has become inevitable to wake up with these thoughts as my alarms. So. Many. Alarms.

And I am not a morning person to begin with.

I wish it could all just pause.

Just for a day.

Pause.

I say ‘pause’ instead of ‘stop’ simply because I never want to become someone who takes a single moment for granted.

And trust me, I do not.

If I had no fear of anyone dying, I would most likely be an absolute ass.

I wouldn’t look at the girl with blue hair walking with her head facing the floor and think about telling her that blue is a good color for her.

I wouldn’t see a Facebook post of an acquaintance expressing these feelings of low self esteem and blatant sadness and want them to know I am here if they need a hand to lift them back up on the stairway to contentment.

I would not see my sister drive away from me to travel back to her home in West Virginia and cry like it’s the last time we will ever speak to each other.

I would not witness my mother scream out of pure helplessness and apprehension for her own life and want to do everything in my power to save her heart from becoming cold.

I would not wonder every day if the love of my life is feeling okay. If he needs me deep down, but will not speak up. And I wouldn’t want to pry.

The lines my grandmother spoke when she said she was so tired of this sickness that she was ready to put a bullet in her head would not echo through my brain.

I would not replay the scene of my great grandmother Annie letting one last breath escape her body before cousins and aunts took everything of hers to ‘remember’ her, since they were barely there to ‘remember’ her when she was still breathing.

I would not be in fear every day that I might lose my sister to an addiction.

Or wonder why my dad never tries to call me.

Or text me.

Or Facebook message me for fuck’s sake.

I gave him my new phone number.

I swear I did.

Now it’s just getting sad.

I guess what I’m trying to say is I hate the thought of people being absent from my life.

I couldn’t live like that. And I wouldn’t.

I could keep going but my hand is tired from never knowing that I’m pressing too hard on the page and gripping the pen too tight when I write.

I guess, maybe, I think too much.

Or is everyone else not thinking enough?