Silent Cacophony

The faucet drips like it’s counting something, not sure what, maybe the spaces between the seconds that nobody notices

The fridge hums, like an old man with a secret, too tired to share but too stubborn to keep quiet

Why is the light flickering? It’s not broken, just indecisive, like it can’t choose between staying or leaving—maybe I get that

Yesterday feels sticky, clinging to the walls like honey or something sweeter but less welcome, like a song you don’t remember liking

The clock keeps moving but I don’t feel it—maybe time’s walking on tiptoes today, careful not to wake me

There’s a pile of laundry on the chair, no, a mountain, no—just fabric, but somehow it’s heavier than stone

A knock on the door but nobody’s there, or maybe I imagined it—does it matter? The world’s full of empty knocks and unanswered echoes

My phone lights up—oh, someone said something, but the words blur together like smoke or rain on a windshield, can’t make sense of them

Do you think mirrors ever get tired of reflecting? Or do they just give up some days and decide not to care about what they see?

The coffee’s cold again, did I forget it or did it forget me? Not sure but the taste lingers, bitter, like promises nobody meant to keep

There’s a bird outside, singing—I think it’s a song about freedom but maybe it’s just noise, everything’s just noise sometimes

My feet feel like they’re sinking into the floor but the floor’s solid, isn’t it? Why do things that feel solid always slip away?

Another drip from the faucet—counting again, but not to me, maybe to the shadows stretching longer now, waiting for something

It’s quiet, but not peaceful, just the kind of quiet that hums, a low murmur beneath the surface, waiting for someone to listen . . .