Instructions for when the world gets loud

Don't try to catch it.

You'll scare it off.

Just—

leave the dishes in the sink for once.

Let the last bit of light hit the water pooled there

and make a wobbly gold coin on the ceiling.

Sit on the floor.

Not cross-legged like some ad.

Just slump against the cabinet

where the wood's worn smooth from years of you

brushing past in the dark.

Take your shoes off.

Your socks probably don't match.

Good.

Listen.

Not for anything special—

just the fridge humming its one-note song,

a car passing on wet pavement (that shushhh sound),

your own breath when you forget to control it.

Here's the thing nobody says:

peace isn't something you build.

It's what's left over

when you stop filling every second with noise.

So let your hands go limp in your lap.

Watch how they look like someone else's hands

just for a minute—pale, veiny, real.

Don't check your phone.

Let it buzz once on the counter.

Let it stop.

If your mind jumps to tomorrow's dentist appointment

or that weird thing you said in 2017—

just nod at the thought like you'd nod at a neighbor

walking their dog.

Yeah, hi. Not right now.

Breathe in.

Smell the leftover garlic from dinner.

Breathe out.

Feel your shoulder actually touch the cabinet

instead of hovering an inch away like it usually does.

Stay there until your knee starts to ache.

Then shift. Slow.

That little stretch when you move?

That's it.

That's the whole thing.

You don't have to name it.

You don't have to keep it.

Just let it sit with you

like a cat that wandered in from the rain—

not yours to keep,

but real while it's here.

When you finally stand up,

the gold coin on the ceiling will be gone.

The dishes will still be dirty.

Your socks still won't match.

But something shifted.

You can't prove it.

You'll forget by tomorrow.

That's fine.

You were here.

The light was here.

For three minutes nothing hurt.

And that's enough.

More than enough.

It's everything.