I am a thinker. I think like I breathe, constantly and without reason. Chaotically and emotionally. Quietly but deeply. I think about the dust that sits atop every untouched book on every standing bookcase. I think about how lonely the pages of those books must be. I think about how the spines must feel once they’re finally opened. I overthink thoughts that have already been overthought yet somehow It still feels like I’m not thinking enough. When I think about the future, all the “what ifs” transcend the confines of my own consciousness. These thoughts make me want to speed up time and see just how many of them are real. What if I can’t be happy? What if life gives up on me? What if it just doesn’t work out? But then again...what if it does? When the doubt is gone and the fear diminishes my thoughts turn hopeful. I think about the way my future will surprise me with a hug from a stranger or an open door of opportunity. My future alone won’t allow me to sit still, so my body, like my mind, cannot be contained. I constantly run through the possibilities of success, love, happiness, peace. Unencumbered by the lumbering weight of the possibilities of hate, failure, or heartbreak. In those moments, when the silence grows too loud, thinking isn’t enough. I feel, I understand, I imagine. My thoughts are no longer who I am, they are what I aspire to be.