My biggest fear in life ain’t beasts or a cinematic threat no creak in the hall, no teeth in the dark, no silhouette it’s memory acting prophetic, obsessive, repetitive sets like a file that corrupted the present by leaking the end as a preset I said it’s clean when it hits, no surreal distortion to blame no melting clocks, no nonsense logic, it’s painfully normal in frame same angles, same cadence of speech, same pause in the breath when you say— something I swear I remember before you finish the phrase And I been trying to play it off, “just stress,” keep it socially neat but it’s threading through silence, embedding in moments between like I’m watching the cut and the raw at the same time it’s spliced front row to an ending that’s already finalized twice Tell me why it don’t blur, don’t bend, don’t break under pressure why it sharpens with time like it’s begging me not to forget it Now it’s leaking in daylight, I’m mid-conversation, it flickers I hitch on a syllable, stall on a vowel, my timing gets thinner ‘cause I seen how this line ends before you deliver the finish and it’s messing with rhythm, I’m fighting the urge not to flinch in it There’s a pattern, I tracked it, I hate that it actually maps every pass gets a little more vivid, a little less room to react like I’m stuck in a script with no ad-libs allowed in the act and I’m hyper-aware of the fact I can’t pivot it back Try to drown it in noise, in the grind, in the day-to-day drag but it blooms in the gaps when the world goes a fraction too quiet and flat that’s when it drops like a lift with the cable cut clean and my stomach remembers the fall from a place I ain’t been If it’s all in my head, why it land so exact when I test it? why it feel like I’m late to a scene that was set with intention? I don’t fear what’s hiding, I fear what’s been shown— like I’m stuck watching endings that already— —happened before. I’m splitting the syllables, stitching them tight with a clinical stitch keeping it casual outwardly, inwardly spiraling quick every detail identical, down to the dust in the light when it shifts down to the breath in your chest when you’re just about ready to—switch See, I can call it before it occurs and that’s not something I wanted it’s less like a gift and more like a script that I’m forced into constant I’m not saying I’m chosen, I’m saying I’m stuck in a vantage where knowing the end doesn’t help, it just kills any chance to be honest ‘cause how do you act like it matters when outcomes feel locked in advance? how do you keep any weight in a step when you’ve seen where it lands? I’d trade every ounce of this “clarity” back for a fraction of doubt uncertainty breathes, but this certainty’s squeezing it out
