Paranoia is an unreasonable feeling
that people are trying to harm you.

Oftentimes I mistake my heartbeat
as somebody else’s footsteps.
As it gets louder and faster, he gets nearer.
Horror flushes all my blood into my head,
sets it ablaze like the suns,
jammed and overmuch, enough to explode.
It fails to function like a flat tire,
slowing me down and shaking my body
besides my feet and hands.
Both pairs are frozen:
on my bed, on the carpet and on my desk,
on the bathroom floor and on the wall.
I suspect him to be wielding something:
a knife, a gun, his bare teeth, his tongue.
Anything can be a weapon against anyone.

His footsteps stop, just outside my door,
but then I still hear my heart beating.
“This is not real,” I say.

When I stopped listening
to my heartbeat and its odd pace,
to the approaching footsteps
and the clicks of its heels against the timber;
when I stopped indulging
myself in delusion and negation;
when I stopped assuming
a well-blended color of mixing
reality with fantasy;
when I stopped panicking,
and allowed only silence
and vacancy to flood me,
everything was sane.

On worse cases…
His footsteps stop, just outside my door,
but then I still hear my heart beating.
But I don’t say anything.
I am terrified, but am curious.
I hear a slight jiggle of the doorknob,
followed by a familiar sound of it twisting,
metals clinking against metal.
Worn hinges creaked.
I know the door is open now.
I focus myself on my pumping heart,
listen to it wildly thumping in my chest.
I close my eyes,
and let out a heavy sigh.
Then pictures of the
most morbid haps that I dread
flashes in my sight.

It was fear;
who danced along so well with
the pounding of my heart,
who made me cringe at the sound of my own,
who deprived me of freedom,
who drew that boundary in front of me,
who put me in a box,
who isolated me
and grew me fond of isolation.
It was fear;
who held a knife in his hands
and eyeing his next victim,
who gave birth to regrets,
who aimed a gun against his foe’s head,
who made the dark a little darker,
who verbally abused a child,
who has every single one of us
in this world at the palm of his hands.

But fear can not be hated.
Can not be spat at.
It can only be conquered.

If I should define paranoia in my terms,
then I’d say,
“I have paranoia. I have a reasonable
feeling that my fears are trying
to harm me.”


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