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My desire to be free of my own mind continues its desperate dancing struggle.

I am an enemy to my own conscience.

I overthink the already overthought—a precarious precipice I dangle as a leaf in a summer’s typhoon, I, drown in the raging tide, I, climb through mounds of archives—limitless, in its capacity.

“It’s 12:36 am,” I tell myself, “I have to sleep”.

there is none. The battle continues, I can hear the swords coming to blows, each knife-sound, is a word cutting ever deeper. A wound, an infection, creeping—slowly into the capillaries, spreading open within my veins, my arteries, my very limbs—septic.

I can no longer breathe on my own it seems. I can no longer bear the burden of consciousness.

I sleep. —The war begins anew.