In the back of my mind, situated within a crevice untouched, lies the voices that keep me up at night. The constant conversation between myself and myself. A lingering tale of what could be, what has occurred, and what is to come. Yet again the unpredictability of life haunts me in a way that effectively has deteriorated my present persona. It has ensured years of insomnia, and the inability to be fully comfortable with myself. With loss of control comes the unwanted harboring of thoughts and desires that live like parasites inside, feasting on chances of maintaining any peace and quiet. Mind Clutter. Personally I think  “clutter” degrades the quality of the content being uttered, but the surplus of needless conversation is inadvertently a full characteristic of what the term conveys. These thoughts inhibit my desire to live deliberately. As they wade in the tide pool of my imminent and most distant fears, whilst backgrounding present ideals, being alone is no longer something I find to be enjoyable. I cannot imagine sitting in bed and not having a chat with myself. Truly being able to lie down, shut my eyes, and enter a deep sleep. I can ensure to you that this is not a result of a lack of exhaustion, as I know the feeling to exist almost exclusively twenty four hours of the day, but rather a stronger more prevalent force that shields acceptance of the present moment. By alluding to scenes of life that did not actually exist, such voices have elevated the state of being satisfied, subjecting me to a life of doom. Whether these talks have spurred from the idealization of perfecting every single facet of life, or plainly due to self doubt of what has transpired, I wish to be the one managing the timeliness of it all. At times I genuinely enjoy the justification that talking to oneself provides for a day’s worth of actions and interactions, yet there should be no need to spend hours dwelling on something probably inconsequential to every other person on the planet, and which also has no authority of likely occurring. Perhaps isolation is even more of a necessity at times such as these, since ultimately I will only have one conscience, and the ability to proceed without fear of the constant unrealistic expectations being subdued is imperative. “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all,” Oscar Wilde.