Staring up at the ceiling,
listening to the tick-tock sound of the clock,
clawing at the already cut corners of my finger nails,
anxiety seeps in
as I wait for the strike of noon
to cross an item off my to-do list
wondering if I did turn the office lights off.
There’s always
a constant feeling of doubt to order,
a jittery feeling of punctuality,
a tiring feeling of anxiety,
a compulsory feeling of perfection.
12 noon and
I’m suddenly swimming in a pool of disparate emotions,
with questions forming in apparent soliloquy
as to why life is weirdly intentional
and if death is truly so peaceful.
4 hours later, Snapback,
and I’m drawn away from my alter ego,
back to the drawing board,
item-crossed out, unto the next,
until the last is checked, then
rest.
I try to escape
the constant run to an opposite reality,
the jittery show of many insecurities,
the tiring cycle of patterned subjectivity,
the compulsory feeling of perfection.
But for a reason at an ungodly hour,
I’m pacing back and forth in my room
with a knife at hand,
thinking of ways to escape the shadows
flying out the thick dark clouds on my window pane.
This feeling,
a constant feeling of fear,
a jittery feeling of self-defense,
a tiring feeling of indecisiveness,
a compulsive feeling of perfection.
Is this what a mental illness looks like?
-Maureen
Bio:
My name is Omorinsola and I am a poet, a writer, a make-up artist and an aspiring artiste. I am a fan of art and I enjoy creativity.
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/i__am__maureen?r=nametag