Oh, you troubled souls of misfits,
Let this world witness that perpetually racing minds of yours.
Running with those fleeting thoughts and surreal ideas.
Never seeming to halt, not even for
a moment as if it’s your heart itself that’s thinking.
Enthralling it is, to think about what your minds can assume of those simple dreary situations and manifest them into such stimulating state of affairs.
And yes, beautiful it is, for almost all the revolutionaries were perhaps big-time overthinkers too.
Overwhelming it does get, sometimes.
For that delusional feeling of paranoia never really seems to leave your agitated spirits.
Having late-night conversations about things as trivial as people’s opinions, to as substantial as the creation of the entire cosmos,
with no one to listen to, but only your insomnia.
Might there be salvation?
Salvation from that relentless voice in your head,
from unprecedented expectations, and from the thought of any thought itself?
For you can only get to discern that,
if you try to write an ode someday.
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