I sit alone with my thoughts... a strange disarray of passionate beliefs that circle my clouded brain.

I lay inside myself, a dangerous place to be at such a time, a place of uncertainty, disbelief, and insecurity of who I am. My brain slowly becomes detached from the rest of my being, prying on the source of life, source of energy that becomes me. The chemical reactions inside my brain work at a speed not measurable in the space of time, producing unimaginable series of depressive doubt.

That word is used so often in my personal, internal vocabulary. *Flick* goes the elastic band at my left wrist. Doubts are a figment of the imagination when under significant pressure of the unknown, figments of the imagination like the bogey man underneath my bed as a small child, made up, fiction. Fiction that writes a great story, fiction that corrupts a positive mind, that re-writes the certainty with the disbelief created out of pure fear, pure fiction.

Why do I think too much? Over analyse every situation until I cry, burst into that liquid mess I have become so familiar with lately. It’s the need for certainty, the need to have certainty to encompass love. I find it so hard to let others in, to internalise the possible truth that someone out there does in fact love me, and love me for who I am, the whole confused, depressed, insecure bundle that so often describes me.