I often overthink.

Does it make me cautious?
I think not.

It makes me freeze
But thrash in my sleep,
Replan my life,
But ignore the present.

I’ve only been alive for some 17 years,
And Rodin’s creation has been alive for some 140.
So surely, 
I’m not the one with the worst case 
Of this disease.

But what does The Thinker think?
The arts and 
Humanities,
Grieving over
The loss 
Of a courteous 
And splendid culture.

Maybe he’s not quite as 
Sentimental.
Perhaps,
He spends his time cursing 
At those who touch him
All over
And take shots 
Of his naked form.

Or maybe he laughs and wishes that
He was looking 
Somewhere else
Other than 
the 
ground.

While I wonder,
If these 17 years 
Are a bygone story
Tucked behind some 
Shelf of second-picks
And forgotten series

Or, if this is all a prelude 
To a jubilant journey
In a non-fantastical world.

But if that thinker has been alive
For some 140 years,
Maintaining his 
Essence
With oxidized bronze and a
Stiff posture with no 
Arthritis, 
Revered as a masterpiece, 
A king of grandeur 

Then I must assure myself,
I will surely do 
Just fine.

                                                                                          But will I?