I thought by now that my propensity to get tied up in thinking, thinking, thinking would have eased, but I still wake in the night imagining scenarios, reliving conversations, and trying to predict the future. It’s a losing game.
I come from a long line of deep thinkers. (I don’t know if that’s really true, but given that those who follow me are likewise afflicted, it follows that the tendency comes from somewhere—someone.) While I appreciate the predisposition to get lost in my thoughts, sometimes the churning continues past the point of being useful.
I wrote this short verse and, a few days later, had a conversation with friends about the stories we tell ourselves and the resulting angst we allow ourselves to get caught up in. I’m sorry for others who fall into this trap but, if I’m honest, it’s a comfort to know I’m not the only one.
This poem is one long sentence and reading it that way makes the reader feel like you’re running out of breath. Not unlike the breathless feeling that rapscallion, Overthinking, brings with him when he shows up.
Third Wheel
Overthinking joined my old friends,
Rumination and Cogitation,
and those three rascals, who are prone
to keep me up at night and cast a funereal pall
over my days, are conspiring about something
that will, more than likely, turn out to be nothing,
but one never knows, so it’s worth putting an ear
to a glass held up on the wall just to listen
and see if there’s any chance of preparing
or mitigating or—god help us—preventing
whatever it is they’re going on about now.
Now that you’re finished reading, take a deep breath! All shall be well!