Inside The Watcher's Mind

I am being watched,
Constantly.
And every decision I make
Is judged
By a mind so much more experienced
Than I could ever hope for my time.
I become conscious and
My forehead folds with every action,
And the watcher is always a step ahead,
As if he could rewind and play my past
And knows what my future is.

The watcher is me.

My future self, perhaps watching me
As I write this,
Adds the unwanted pressure to write good.
My future self, perhaps watching me,
As I eat and dwelve in lethargy,
Is cursing me for his ailments.
My future self blames me
For anything that goes awry,
Perhaps, I didn't do enough in my time.

I float in a bubble of memory
Inside the watcher's mind.
Scared for the bubble breaking open
And me flowing out, shrieking for help,
Help provided by the watcher me.
My rendezvous with what is yet to come
And I'm clueless, vacant on my speech,
Yet brimming with questions that I want answered,
And some better left unasked,
Wishing I could get him to stop the replays,
And implore him to stop watching
But I know I'm stubborn
And time could only have worsened that.

My shower turns drier with
The ascending scarcity of life's liquid.
And mind slithers back to normalcy,
Shower thoughts are a fancy world.