Overthinking. Overthinking.

These numbers. Numbers. Numbers. Numbers. They keep growing as i keep going up stairs. Up and down. Up and down.  So i enter in a spiral, where the bones breaks at the touch of each step. Each step. In each step I conclude that I am a robot, controlled by the time, mechanized by inconclusive diagnoses of a hypochondriac system that i continue to believe that can confort me. Confort me. Now, its where the illusions begging, everything keeps surrouding my head, everything turning blue and red and violet and blue and yellow. Again. Again. Again. Why is your room such a mess? The hours getting speedy, getting liquid, passing through my fingers and lungs like water, like oil, like alcohol so it burns everything. Im burning. Im burning my words, my fingers. Swallowing everything still warm down my throat. Why is your room such a mess? Now, for my ego, i keep telling him to stop. Stop making art, stop getting stuck in your own head again to just reach a top of rhymes. Rhymes. Rhymes after rhymes. Nothing comforts me more than a room full of paintings and fresh ink. But i still search for games that i cant win. I cant win. Frustation. Frustrated i manufacter, cook up, invent a game. Now i can win. I win because i invent the rules, i control everything like a queen of disaster, sitted in a throne made of glass. Made of glass like my heart. And my dreams. And my words. And my lies. Im a machine made of stress. Why is my room such a mess? I shrink in my head, trying to get answers to all my questions, for all your questions, for all my tests of math that i keep getting zero. I can love the numbers so much that i hate them. I hate them. I love them. I hate them. I love you. Im paradoxly in fear. Im pulling myself down. Up and down. Up and down. Trying to reach the top of the labirynth but again in the wrong maze. The top cant just be a shadowed surface, filled with tragedies and mistakes. It cant. I'm so busy with the uncertain. I'm so heavy on abusive thoughts that i forget to open the red door. Verb after verb, metaphors in lines. Here im trying to write a new kind of saying art. I keep stepping, i keep stepping. Now in front of the exit. Facing a white wall, covered in blood. Climb it. Climb it. Climb it. Climb it. But in the end theres just a reflection of a dual me who is going to perceive the inquisitive knowledge of my insanity. They keep telling me, ``do not forget to punctuate your essays. Your course is full of numbers that you cant embrace. Oh please, shut your mouth when your stomach acids wants to leave. Oh, wait, is your room still a mess?`` I feel everything countable such as a shopping list. I count all the bricks, nails, doors, windows. And i made them a castle of comodism. Today is October, January, March, April. I reallly dont regonize whats the day. Maybe because i feel all the same. The same grades, the same answers, the same ways to feel something. To feel something. To learn something. Everyday. Everyday. Everyday i write a book, a ghost story where my anxiety will scare you.