Dear Mind, Shut the f**k up!

This little mind of mine talks too much.

It never listens to me, asks too much — about everything and everyone, from the beginning to the end.

About life and death about rape and threat about love and hate about belief and fate, about faith and fuck, about chance and luck, about war and peace, about love and greed, about joke and jazz, about friends and fakes, about gold and dust, about road and wheels, about worms and wounds, about sound and sand, about mountains and land, about cotton and buttons, about wire and tape, about kites and spices about smoke and air, about right and fair, about ice and rock, about pop and bubble about music and murder and about all those songs that could only take place because someone had died an untimely death.

Day or night, dark or light, this little mind of mine never stops reminding me of things which, to be honest, I shouldn’t be thinking.

Even when I try to sleep in my tiny bed, I try to shut all the tabs, but the pop-ups from my mind start floating on the surface.

In a rather shrill voice, it starts talking, and I lie there listening. Often I try to ignore the voice but eventually join the debate.

It asks me about system and power and flowers and towers and lonely people living on those tall towers.

Perhaps on a mountain top with no TV to watch or songs to listen to or dreams to dream about.

What do they do when the only thing they can see is the patch of the world visible from outside their window?

It asks why people dance while having a drink, especially when they are not paying for it?

What does the DJ do when people ask him to play the song he hates because it reminds him of a bad breakup? Does he play the song because it’s his job, or he makes a little excuse, “sorry bro, I can’t find this song in my system,” when the truth is — that’s the only song he has got in his system. And it is playing in the background all day and all night — all the other music in the world is just there to shut that song.

It asks why things don’t end? Why are there plenty of half-written novels waiting to be re-touched by their writers?

This little mind of mine knows very little but thinks too much. It feels very little but speaks too much.

It asks why there is no way to find out if ants have invented tiny helicopters yet? If yes? Are they going to meet bees? Are bees and ants shaking hands and making plans to overtake the Earth?

It also wonders if bees can one day learn genetic engineering and make human-sized bees. And perhaps share their formula with the ants who visit them in their tiny helicopter.

This is something I also like human-size humans, human-size bees, human-size ants. That would be a sexy war.

I’d bee-friend a bee. And I would make an ant for my aunt. Humans are not worth shit, and I’d rather live underground with my bee-friend and many four-legged aunts.

With all the screaming that my mind indulges in, I got lost and forget to do simple tasks such as getting up and leaving my bed.

I even forget small acts like talking to my family or having a job that I must not lose.

I also end up ignoring the fact that there is a sweet-sweet guy who loves me so much even when I can’t love myself.

Dear mind, you are not helping me with all your nonsense talks, stupid questions, and uncalled-for thought starters.

Even though you are mine, my dear precious mind, please. “Shut the fuck up!”