Noise

The world is loud. 

Deafening, actually. 

It’s as if every corner of existence conspires to shatter the eardrums, pushing us to the brink of sensory overload. The noise isn’t just external—it worms its way into the cracks of your thoughts, twisting what should be moments of creativity into something dull, something restless. The kind of noise that fills the spaces where silence should live, leaving you tangled in distractions that don’t really matter.

Some people deal with it by posing for the camera, posting selfies, or lying down, scrolling through meaningless quotes on Facebook and Twitter—lines they probably don’t even fully grasp. And then, there are those who let the noise in until it swallows them whole, becoming the very thing that keeps the rest of us awake at night.

But honestly, that clamor pales in comparison to the one inside my head. I’ve always been a reflective thinker, maybe even too reflective, lost in ideas that don’t quite make sense even to me. (Okay, I’ll admit—I overthink a lot. Alright, fine. I overthink everything.)

It’s past 2 a.m. now, and still, the silence I crave escapes me. 

Instead, I’m frozen in this odd fear—a sense that something big is coming, something inevitable yet invisible. It’s that not knowing that gnaws at me, the uncertainty sparking a fire of anxiety, and from that fire, fear is born. It’s irrational, I know. But in the stillness of the night, when the world finally finds its peace, my mind decides to wage war on itself. 

It’s always been this way—my brain, relentlessly picking apart things that don’t even concern me, obsessing over problems I can’t solve, creating scenarios, nightmares even, that feed my paranoia until there’s no room left for quiet.

I’m being eaten alive by that incessant voice, a voice that drowns out the world.

But when I run, everything quiets.

So I run. 

I just run. 

And in that motion, I find it—my silence.

And in that silence, 

I find peace.