The Coincidence of Overthinking...

 

Overthinking is the bane that grips me and crushes my soul,

‘What-ifs?’ clouding my mind,

Each scenario planned out with precision when I daydream,

This poem is the proof of the same,

I went, what-if if life is a wonderful coincidence,

What-if it is all planned out in advance,

And I am just unknowingly playing my part,

Pulled by the strings of fate.

Is life a wonderful coincidence?

Or just a bunch of random events with no meaning whatsoever?

Out of all the permutations and combinations,

When the odds are 7.8 billion to 1,

And in this entire existence of your human life,

I think there might be a few people who actually know you,

Despite the internet and including the people on the internet,

Maybe even less if your introverted…

What are the odds?

7.8 billion to 20.

780,00,00,000 to 20.

If I say it is a coincidence,

Then honestly it is too much of a coincidence,

That you met a bunch of 20 random people out of 7.8 billion,

Who may or may not have impacted your life in a significant manner,

Who may have held you when your unhappy and crying,

You might think that the odds of a meteor striking the earth are more than that.

The Hindus believe that you are born as a human once in 84 lac births,

So, you literally have like a rare one-shot at life.

Ironically,

Animals don’t really sit and ponder over how their life is going,

They don’t have that ability,

It is only humans who do that,

We have a consciousness,

And we use it to ruin it all.

Or at least I use it to overthink,

What if it is not at all a coincidence?

What if everything is just a bunch of random events?

Which we piece together to find inherent meaning and call it coincidence…

At this point you might be like this poem is tainted with melancholy,

With a strange sense of optimism,

Paired with a free philosophical discourse.

The gamut of feelings,

Capturing despair and hope,

Of having control, to having no control over life,

I want to be positive,

But I am extremely negative,

Being at odds with yourself,

Is probably the most common thing now,

You could say I am cynic,

Who wants to be hopeful enough to believe the existence of a magical muse,

Because not being a cynic is akin to privilege itself.

However, I want to keep going

And going,

And going,

Till it all comes to an end,

Till it all comes to fruition,

Just to see how it all plays out.

What if this free-verse was never meant to be written?

Or just stay as a draft in my folder for another six months?

What propelled me to continue, I don’t know,

Nonetheless the words keep coming to me,

Maybe it is a wonderful coincidence,

Or maybe it is not,

Maybe it is the conscious effort of pouring your heart out,

Tweaking the words until perfection,

Letting it stew until the flavour of the words blend together.

As I try to upend my overthinking brain on paper,

Putting the rawness of human emotions into words,

I realise this is never going to end,

That is why it is called overthinking.

Over. Thinking. It is over now.

Or wait, what if my overthinking was a coincidence?

Just so that this poem could see the light of the day…

No wait, I am 100% going to stop now.

Thinking. Over. It is over now. 

 

 

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