They do not whisper.
They arrive with sound—
a cataclysmic brass section in the cathedral of my skull,
blaring without rhythm, without reason.
Intrusive thoughts:
not guests, but invaders
storming through synapses with muddy boots
and fire on their tongues.
They don't knock.
They kick the door in,
screaming absurdities and doomsday sermons,
blaring guilt like sirens in the dark.
"What if you said it wrong?"
"What if you’re not enough?"
"What if everything you love slips through your fingers?"
These thoughts crack like thunder
as I’m walking through the silence—
each step meant to be peace,
each breath a prayer for stillness,
shattered in a flash of noise and fear.
Their horns shatter more than quiet.
Even in calm moments—especially in calm moments—
they raise their instruments to their cracked lips
and unleash noise
like the sky splitting open.
I flinch.
I brace.
I try to drown them with breath,
with mantras,
with the soft rhythm of reality.
But still they play.
Relentless.
Discordant.
Majestic in their cruelty.
And yet—
somewhere beneath the chaos,
a single, trembling note of defiance holds:
not all noise is truth.
Not every trumpet speaks prophecy.
I let them play.
Let them blare and blast and rage.
And then I move anyway,
into the next moment—
not unshaken,
but still standing.