I have no damn idea.
People talk about peace like it’s a cabin in the woods, or a deep breath, or some Instagram-ready sunset. Sounds nice, I guess. But my life’s been a long stretch of noise—some of it mine, most of it not. I’ve gotten used to living in the hum, like an old fridge that rattles in the night. Or the hiss of an air compressor after it shuts down. Then you jump every time it kicks back on. It happens when you least expect it, just like the things in life.
I’ve been at peace in the woods. I’ve been at peace in the desert. That’s about as far apart as you can get, which tells me it’s not the place—it’s the state of mind. But the trick is holding onto it, and that’s where I lose it every time. Quiet feels like the moment before the other shoe drops, and I’ve had enough shoes drop to know better.
If peace ever shows up, it’ll have to find me where I am—coffee cooling in my hand, pen scratching against paper, the world still loud but not enough to stop me. Until then, I’ll keep moving through the noise.
Memoirs of Madness 