Clocked Heart

Prologue

I think about death a lot.

Let me rewind that. The thought of death consumes my mind more than anything else. If I'm driving, I imagine the screech of tires, the crunch of metal—a car wreck that leaves me lifeless. When I'm walking down a dimly lit street at night, shadows stretch long and sinister, and I envision being robbed, assaulted, or worse. Even in the sanctuary of my bed, where sleep should bring peace, I lie awake, picturing my house engulfed in flames, the smoke stealing my breath as I slip away in my sleep. My mind, a relentless storyteller, spins these morbid tales at the most inopportune moments, a macabre daydreaming that I can't seem to escape.

Perhaps these thoughts are not unique. Maybe others, too, find their minds wandering to dark places, crafting stories of their own demise. Or maybe I'm particularly adept at conjuring these grim fantasies, letting them seep into every corner of my consciousness. I don't know if my thoughts are normal or if they stray into some forbidden territory of the psyche, but they feel real to me, as tangible as the air I breathe. It's as if my mind is a broken record, stuck on a theme that I can't turn off.

There's a strange comfort in these thoughts, as unsettling as they are. They are familiar, a twisted part of me that I've come to recognize and oddly accept. It's as if my preoccupation with death shields me from the randomness of life, a way to control the uncontrollable, to prepare for the inevitable end that awaits us all. It's a coping mechanism, albeit a morose one, a way to make sense of a world that often feels chaotic and unpredictable.

My life has been a constant struggle to fit into a mold of perfection that was never truly mine. The expectations of my parents loomed large, casting long shadows over my own desires and dreams. In striving to meet their ideals, I lost pieces of myself along the way. The result is this—a person who overthinks every step, who second-guesses every decision, who finds herself more at home in the labyrinth of her own thoughts than in the world outside.

There's a sadness in realizing that much of my life has been lived in this introspective limbo, more consumed by my inner monologue than by the vibrant life around me. It's as if I've been watching my own life unfold from a distance, detached and dispassionate, waiting for something—anything—to break the cycle. The weight of this awareness is heavy, like carrying a secret that no one else can see.

And yet, in these quiet, solitary moments, I find a kind of solace. There's a beauty in the melancholy, a depth in the darkness that speaks to something deeper within me. It's a reminder that life, with all its unpredictability and pain, is also filled with moments of profound introspection and understanding. It's in these moments that I feel most alive, even as I contemplate the very end of life itself.

So, I continue to navigate this complex landscape of thoughts, balancing on the edge between living and merely existing. I hold onto the hope that one day, I'll find a way to step fully into the light, to embrace the present without the shadow of death looming over me. Until then, I'll continue to explore these thoughts, to find meaning in the madness, and perhaps, in some small way, make peace with the inevitability of it all

As the youngest in the family, you might think I was the one who got everything without even asking. But in my family, things were different. I was the daughter my parents never had to worry about, the one who seemed well-organized, disciplined, kind, and understanding. The one who didn't need constant attention or help while growing up. But what they didn't know was that beneath this facade, I longed for their presence just as much as my older sister, Evelyn, who always seemed to get it more than I ever did.

Now, as an adult, my mind is a labyrinth I can't escape. My mother often said that if you keep overanalyzing everything, you'll never find happiness. "Accept and move on," she would say as if it were that simple. But how was I supposed to learn this when no one ever taught me how? If I'm meant to just get over everything, how do I understand my worth in anyone's life? How do I defend myself when someone's actions hurt me? These are the things my parents assumed I would figure out on my own, but the answers still elude me.