The sky is not falling. Only stars.

The only person who can solve my problems, well that's me. It's the only person I count on to do so too. I know me. I know me well. For you to solve my issue, you would need to know me. This could take, 50+ years and I am only 34. Come on. This problem needs to be resolved inside of my lifetime because more are on their way. It's a matter of logic.
But see, I got this. It's one of repetition, one I know the root of; a ride that begins high and ends low, so rather than scream my head off during, giving all the other passengers needless heart attacks, I'll just grit my teeth, growl and white knuckle the safety bar.

I know I am quiet, withdrawn, wandering, day dreaming, staring at white walls sometimes. Nonsensical half sentences, from the middle of inaudible thoughts, broken by laughter or tears, which never belong. Precision questions from a confused origin, uttered not for their answers but only to continue the processing along silk threads barely holding webs of unbalanced explanations together. Out of nowhere, no visible rhyme or reason, moods switching so quickly paying attention might have given one whiplash.
I know.
People don't get fixed they just figure out how to rearrange the puzzle pieces to suit the moment, the issue, the problem, the path. When I am thinking, when I have something to figure out, that's all I am doing. Rearranging.
I am not deluded in thinking one day I will be ok, as though there is some magical elixir to stumble upon, or a sequence of numbers I must know to unlock all the secret solutions to the problems every one but me has. No. No one is ok. We are all a bunch of fucked up, punked out souls, each with their own invisible scars, some deeper than others. Maybe it is easy for some one to deal with theirs. Maybe some people have it harder. I don't care, it's NMFP: Not of My Fucking Problem. I can't help them; they can't help me. We are all Even Stevens.
There will always be voices that whisper but they get softer with time, experience and contemplation. And though it will never go away, one day, the taunting won't matter as much. A deafening; pillows shoved against the wall insulating the outside (and inside) world. A better realization of events one can smile and stick their middle finger up at. I have no reason to think otherwise and am happy to understand the process.
I've been at this a long time, baby. This track, it's well worn.

Ignore me. Let me pace the floors, scrub the kitchen floor, rearrange the living room at 3am, lay quietly staring at the ceiling, paint a picture half drunk on wine.
Love me. Make peace with not understanding. All anyone needs to know is the pattern and then like crystal, it's clear.
It always ends, everything, always ends.

Then we can smile and laugh again about how the stars fell and not the sky.