Paranoia looks like

a thousand eyes,

staring out you from the darkness,

unblinking.

A thousand nameless faces

watching,

waiting,

because they know

you’re going to mess up

and they know that you’re

afraid.



Paranoia sounds like

people whispering,

fragments of conversations.

Not complete, but just enough

to let you know you’re being talked about,

because then you get the

Si-

-nk-

-ing

feeling in the pit of your stomach

that they know something

that you don’t know,

that they know something

that they shouldn’t.



Paranoia feels like

a thousand slimy bugs

wriggling and squirming

all close together,

because you’re disgusted,

but you can’t move away.



Paranoia tastes like

bile, rising high in your throat,

choking you, strangling you

because you can’t get the words out,

can’t tell anyone,

can’t trust anyone...



Paranoia smells like

burning rubber,

because it’s a faint smell,

a subtle one... one that

you’re not sure is even there,

but one that,

given enough,

can knock you out or

make you crazy.



Paranoia moves like

a scared kitten,

scitter-ing and

scatter-ing around,

so quickly that you’re

never even sure

that it was there...

in part because

you couldn’t see,

and in part because

you don’t want it

to have been.



Paranoia wants

to scare you,

to make you nervous,

because it thrives on

fear and dread.



Paranoia promises to

badger,

to harass and ridicule

until you finally go insane,

because only then can it be

transferred to another person.



If paranoia could speak,

it would whisper, tauntingly,

“I know something you don’t know...

I know something you don’t knowâ€