A stranger came to my door, uninvited and unfamiliar, yet full of accusations. She did her best to deceive me, suing me at my very doorstep for writing what she claimed were untruthful stories. But these were not stories written to hurt anyone. They were thoughts that formed in my mind, pieces of imagination I used to understand myself and what I was going through. Still, she stood there, furious, because in her eyes, my words had tarnished her public reputation.
She is, apparently, the philanthropist of her family. A woman with an image to uphold, a presence that many admire. But what she fails to realize is this: it is she who disturbed my peace of mind. I never knew her. I had never seen her before, not in person, not in any picture. Yet somehow, she had managed to penetrate my thoughts, as if she had slipped through the cracks of my consciousness, weaving herself into my mental space.
Why did she enter my mind in the first place? What gave her the right? Why does she persist in this strange, silent telepathic game, pressing her thoughts into mine, as though my mind was hers to invade?
There are days when I float in déjà vu, confused by what is real and what is imagined. Other days, I fight blindly against a haunting emptiness, searching for meaning, searching for light. In all of this, her presence remains—unseen, unknown, and yet deeply felt. Her thoughts echo in mine, not in a voice I recognize, but in suggestions, distractions, and emotions that don’t belong to me.
Her telepathic interference is not welcome. My mind is my sanctuary, a sacred space where I work out my own truths. I have never consented to sharing it with her, nor have I wished to hear from her. And yet she continues—free, confident, and relentless—playing her game of mental invasion, as if my inner world is just another toy for her to twist and manipulate.
We are not the same. Her mind and mine do not think alike. She loves setting traps, turning desires against their owners, feeding off confusion and destruction. I wonder: what purpose does she serve in this? Is she so empty inside that she needs to feed on others’ desires to feel powerful? Is she so free that she has nothing better to do than play with the minds of strangers?
I have so many unfinished desires, dreams that remain tucked away, waiting to be brought to life. They are mine—not hers—and I am trying my best to fulfill them, one step at a time. I do not have the time or the mental energy to engage with her, to listen to her whispers in my mind, especially not when I am trying to stay focused. Her interference only leads me to mistakes, to forgetfulness, to anxiety and sabotaging myself.
It makes me angry that I’ve somehow allowed this connection, unintentional as it may be. I hate that she has found a way into my headspace. I hate that I’ve been distracted by her at all. I do not know her. I never wanted this. Why must I entertain these thoughts—this strange form of communication—as if it were normal, as if it were right?
She, this stranger, thrives on decisive desires. She is the queen of manipulation, playing with intentions, twisting them into traps. She loves watching people fall—fall into confusion, fall into failure, fall away from their true selves. And all the while, she hides behind her reputation, behind the false nobility of philanthropy, pretending to be kind, generous, and wise.
But I see through her now. I see the illusion, and I see the damage. What she does is not a gift; it is a theft. She steals peace of mind. She replaces clarity with noise. She cloaks herself in silence while speaking loudest in the chaos of others' thoughts.
I want to be free. Free from her games, free from her presence in my head. I want my thoughts to be my own again. I want to chase my dreams without someone twisting them into nightmares. I want to live without feeling watched, judged, or mentally cornered by someone I’ve never met.
This is my mind. These are my stories. If they are untrue, then let them be fiction. If they are strange, then let them be poetry. But they are mine. No one has the right to sue me for what I imagine, for what I feel, or for what I write when I try to make sense of my experience.
To the stranger: you are not welcome here. Your games are not clever. Your invasions are not spiritual. They are violations. I reject your presence. I reject your influence. I will no longer entertain the telepathy of a stranger who means me no good. My focus is on rebuilding what is mine, finishing what I started, and walking forward with my mind firmly in my own hands.
React
