"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." F.N.

I once read somewhere that it is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything too deeply. So is overthinking. But overthinking keeps you safe. Perhaps not as safe as you would prefer to be. But safer because you broke it down, picked at it, held it up to the light and contemplated it's every angle and curve and crack, therefore knowing all the things and ways it could go wrong, so you can be prepared. But then, there is mulling over the past or what could be, which is, for lack of a better word; impairing.

Most days you find yourself curled up like a fetus in the warm coccoon of your bed, detesting daylight, human interaction/conversation and making an effort of any kind. Thinking, thinking, thinking and feeling. Regretting, backtracking, despairing and your head imploding. Every second is a trial and The Pit becomes your home. She strips you bare and you scream and scream but it's just too damn hard to try anymore.

You see your people repulsed by your inability to adapt to the norm. You see them look at you and not recognise what you have become. You see them recoil when you spit and hiss profanity and realise how loathesome you have become. You see it all but screaming is the only release that soothes you anymore.

And then one day your heart loses control over itself and you find yourself awake at midnight in a room filled with lights that burn into your cornea and a withered man lying infront of you, his every breath audible and matching the hectic beat of your own monitor. You question your existence and contemplate your mortality for the umpteethnth time. How easy it would be to just escalate it and let it explode. They tell you it's years of trauma taking its toll and absent chemicals in your brain, instead of an abysmal hand compressing your chest and an abysmal voice whispering misery in your ear every waking minute of every waking hour. So you swallow their diagnosis along with their pills and you wait for the magical switch to turn on inside you.

Until one day you realise that if you stare long enough and hard enough at the shadows in the darkness of your room, you see them take shape, breathe and even move. And you know that they had been staring at you for much longer, perhaps days, months, years or even decades. And all the logic and common sense you acquired along the yellow brick road is threatened and you seriously doubt your sanity.

You see the shadows in mirrors, in quiet corners and even in the blinding daylight. You hear them whisper your name over the sound of deafening traffic, like static but darker. And you lie awake till dawn because the shrill whistle of the tune you murmured the previous night echoes in the heated depths of your ears. Suddenly you find yourself inhaling soot, slapped, being bathed in gunk and waking up after a night's sleep without any recollection of how it was possible.

Even She has ceased her vicious scraping and stares at you from across the grimy floor, Her arms crossed and head bent. Mildly amused. Abundantly curious. Smirking at the tall tale about brains and chemicals. And you wonder whether she is right. But then you feel the crippling inability to breathe and you know that she isn't.

The shadows vanish though the echoes remain. You remain armed with ammunition, carvings around your neck and writings below your chest. And you breathe. And you pray. And you doubt the incomprehensible reality of it all. And when you feel that familiar constriction in your chest and the unwelcome pounding of your heartbeat, you question why.

There is no light at the end of the tunnel because the shadows are blocking it out. So you just have to keep walking untill you reach it, though when that may be, no one knows. But you don't really have a choice now, do you, with your frail heart and absent chemicals? Haha.