The Symphony of Chaos

Hey reader! I am back with another work for your catharsis. Read on.

I called it noise, back then—

a cacophony of complaints,

shards of words tossed like glass,

crashing over kitchen counters.

Their voices tangled,

looping like broken records,

shouting, screaming,

fighting over things

I thought didn’t matter.

I locked my door,

sealed my ears,

escaped into the hum

of my own ambition—

learning, creating,

anything to drown

their endless storm.

But storms, I’ve learned,

are more than destruction.

They clear, they cleanse.

Their words weren’t

just wasted air;

they were fragments of pain

released

over and over,

until the sharp edges dulled.

And then life showed me—

harsh group dynamics,

friendships frayed like loose threads,

my own voice rising

to match the chaos

I once despised.

I spoke in circles.

I screamed.

I repeated myself

until the ache

lessened.

Now I see them differently:

their voices weren’t noise;

they were music—

raw, jagged symphonies

of survival.

Who am I to judge

the rhythm of release?

We all vent in our ways,

reduce our traumas

to bearable whispers.

Their chaos was never waste.

It was their way.

And now, it’s mine.

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