On the Shoals of Despair

I spend so much time in my head, I fear that I will just start talking to myself. I'll become like the women I see on the street muttering, arguing with themselves, and then demanding spare change. Sometimes I can feel the veneer which separates us slipping. I catch myself moving my lips as I enter a bathroom stall or leave the elevator. Self-reflection has become my hobby—sometimes morbidly so. As I slide further into middle age, I become aware of the ever increasing number of things I may never do again or I may never do at all.