i do not know this person
who will not shut up
this person inside my head
who endlessly tells stories
who relives the past
who spins tales about the future
none of which come true
if there is only one of me
then i must be in a never ending conversation with myself
which is never a good sign
why is it impossible to be here now?
the past lives only in our reconstructed memories
the future lies only in our imagination
is this never ending conversation
a debt that must be paid
for being human?