The cicadas are louder than usual.
Maybe it’s ‘cause I live in the country.
Maybe it’s just uncomfortably silent in my room.
Either way, the critters outside are clouding my thoughts.

I don’t like not being able to hear myself.
I hate having to stick my finger inside of my ear
and pull thoughts out of my head
because every time I write them down
they feel fabricated.

As if i can't trust my own voice.

I miss the feeling of comfortable silence.
That feeling you get from rooftops in brooklyn.
Seeing the never ending movement of the city that never sleeps
even when everybody back home has gone to bed.

Finding comfort in the fact that
in the grand scheme of things you’re no larger than an ant
and neither are your problems.

In that moment
it’s okay that you’re insignificant.