Sound

To be “normal” feels costly—an impossible luxury. Each day I pay for it with my energy, my patience, my quiet. Masking becomes its own kind of performance: one that wears on the body and frays the mind. “I’m tired” is the simplest truth, but it’s only the surface of a deeper exhaustion—one laced with frustration, grief, and the dull acceptance that there is no cure, only endurance.

For others, sound is a form of memory—a melody that brings warmth, laughter, nostalgia. For me, it’s more often an ache, a brightness too sharp to bear. Music still moves me, but the world’s noise presses in deeper, piercing and relentless. It drains like a leech I cannot peel away. There’s beauty in sound, yes—but it comes at a cost. 

I try to retreat into silence, but none is to be found. Even amongst the mundane stillness, there’s a hum I cannot escape, a reminder that peace for me must be created, not found. So I drown the world in rhythm, layering one sound over another, building walls of noise against noise. It’s a fragile refuge, but it’s mine. Because where can you hide when there is no escape?