My mind cannot be pinpointed
every second I’m thinking at least a thousand thoughts
flipping by flickering by
like an old stop motion film
They have no coherence, no goal
No purpose
They just get replayed and replayed and replayed--
Because there’s nothing else to do
The storage bank is at full capacity
No more ideas can be held on to
No more moments can be properly remembered
Nothing else can be filed
They just bounce together in a vacuum--
There is no other option
I feel like that sometimes
Like all the spaces allotted for belonging were taken up by other people
And there are no empty seats
And there are no extra chairs
And I’m the last one on stage when the curtain drops--
I’m the last one on stage and I’m holding a script in one hand and an hourglass in the other
When everyone else has long since moved on
Sometimes the thoughts overlap each other
To the point where i can’t decide if they’re really mine at all
or a few snippets of speech I remember from a conversation years ago
From an old TV show
From someone else’s poem
Leaving me to think yet not think at the same time--
Like writing a book and then rearranging all the words until it becomes unreadable
No longer art but now just nonsense--
I have struggled to find the art in me
The personification of throwing all your feelings onto a canvas 
Seemed like an old wives tale
Because when I sat with brush in hand
Searching for something to feel
All I felt was the click of pictures replaying and replaying and replaying--
A million miles an hour
If there was any feeling in there it was gone before I could grab it
Every emotion fleeting
Every like and dislike fluctuating
My personality a forty seven sided dice that determined which version of me I would be
That day
That week
That month
A chameleon soul that changed its hues to suit the background better
When you’re young the advice they give is be yourself
And so
I tried to find her
I thought maybe she’d exist in a profession
Or a college
Or a far away city
But never once did I think to look inside
Because although we pick ourselves apart to find beauty
we must carry those pieces whether we find it or not
And i was already carrying so much--
But maybe, in some sort of crazy messed up way
that forty seven sided dice was what made me
Me
So what if I’m thinking a billion thoughts at once
I’d rather that than a vacuum of nothing
I’d rather that then precision focus that zooms in on the obsolete and disregards all the peripheral
Our lives exist in the peripheral
In the little moments
In the miniscule details
In the things we wish were forgotten but that we can never seem to unravel from ourselves
Like little pieces of string with knots too right and roots to deep into who we are
Who we were, where we’re going
Those little moments, they aren’t little
They replay inside of us
Over and over and over again
Whether we want to stop them or not
I spent forever sifting through those stop motion photos
Searching for something, for some sort of clue to as to who I was
And even though sometimes I wish for peace and quiet
To be able to close my eyes and nothing be there
If given the choice
I’d always choose my own little stop motion film to keep me company