Cognitive beasts

My mind is a real monster sometimes. I know, because I review those thoughts I commit to writing, and they growl in confirmation at me. I've recorded, for instance, that my mind is my own worst enemy. It plagues me, taunts me, haunts me, about the things you say, and  - pitiless beast - the things you don't. I've blamed it for being too knowing, too sensory, too perceptive for my own good. So that if - sweet chance - I am wrong about some matter, it is too late: I am already in the dark hole of despair and suitably wretched. That's what it tells me anyway, because it is in evil plotting with my gut. 

Some days, my thoughts come lumpily, when I am livid and teary and at war with the world. I long desperately for cohesion, but lumpiness insists it impossible. Other days - late at night, mostly, alone in bed and eluded from sleep - my thoughts are noisy and scattered as gulls, plainly refusing to give me rest. 

There is no satisfaction in thinking about thinking, either, only self-incrimination. It slides into mind, sly as a fox, and before I can push it away, it offers itself like a broken track that insists and insists, nibbling away at some weakened corner of my consciousness. Round and round, eternally sliding down, sentenced indefinitely to no beginning and no end. Nothing feels more antagonistic, nor is there consolation in knowing that there is no salvation from it.

And then, into the realms of dreams. And the monster is hungry again.