Where thinking sharpens insight, and overthinking sharpens fear.

_____________________________

I am a thinker, and I am almost always thinking,

and then overthinking what I have already thought

That’s what I do all the time, being a thinker,

thinking about what thinking has done and brought

_____________________________

I believe I was thinking before I was even born,

of my fate and my purpose, and I was so thrilled

I believe I will be thinking after I am dead,

of my life, and if the purpose was finally fulfilled

_____________________________

I believe I have always been thinking,

of my destiny and the paths leading to it

I believe I will always be thinking,

if I am on the right path or falling into a pit

_____________________________

I keep on thinking of other things as well,

mostly kind and sometimes so cruel

The kind ones I reserve for others,

while the cruel ones are for myself as a rule

_____________________________

I keep on thinking of dark possibilities,

the distance between a bullet and my brain

Is it exactly one impulsive decision long,

or do the decisions form a long chain?

_____________________________

Or how much blood is sprayed everywhere,

when a bullet-ridden body thrashes around?

Is it just enough to write a final message,

or is it by buckets, and seeping into the ground?

_____________________________

Or even how does the brain perceive the bullet?

Does it get frightened by the violent invasion,

or does it welcome the small projectile?

A possibility of completing the equation?

_____________________________

Also, how much time do the memories consume,

to fade away in the darkness and to get extinguished?

Are they switched off suddenly and abruptly,

or are they slowly and gradually relinquished?

_____________________________

I think, and I ask myself all these questions,

and when answered, the results frighten me

But sometimes the questions remain questions,

hanging stalactites, piercing my heart with glee