Athena

I count the minutes,
two by two,
and the screen becomes my clock.
Click. Refresh. Click. Refresh.
The world outside feels broken,
but I keep searching for pieces in the headlines.

My mind whispers threats—
“Check again, or something will fall apart.”
I obey,
not because I believe,
but because fear is louder than reason.

Every refresh is a heartbeat,
every headline a shadow.
The silence between clicks
feels like standing on a cliff,
waiting for the ground to vanish.

I chase reassurance,
but it runs away,
hiding behind words I don’t trust.
Still, I press again—
scroll, scroll, scroll—
like scratching at a wound
that only bleeds more when touched.

I wonder:
is it the news that cages me,
or the echo inside my head?
Is it safety I seek,
or just the illusion of control
in a world that feels uncontrollable?

And yet—
my fingers move without asking,
my eyes devour the screen again,
like a prayer I don’t believe in
but cannot stop repeating.

Refresh. Fear. Refresh. Fear.
An endless litany,
a ritual of madness
that promises peace
but delivers only fire.