Chatter

There’s a kind of chatter in my mind that’s hard to describe unless you’ve heard your own. Not quite a voice, not quite a thought—just this steady, uninvited narration that grows loudest when everything else gets quiet. It tends to arrive in the in-between moments: right before sleep, in the shower, waiting in line without my phone to offer me a hit of dopamine.

I don’t remember when it started. Maybe it’s always been there. Maybe it just got louder as the world did too.

Lately, I’ve been trying to meditate. It feels a bit like trying to still a lake while someone keeps throwing pebbles into it. But every once in a while, there’s a moment—just a flicker—when the water settles. When the chatter pauses, and the silence doesn’t feel empty but full. It’s in those moments that the world comes back into focus.

Right now, I’m sitting next to a large window in a café, sipping a hazelnut latte. The latte art is on point—a perfectly crafted tulip. It’s something I’ve aspired to master, but so far have only managed to create sad, amoeba-like blobs. There’s quiet music overhead, a woman singing softly in Spanish, and someone nearby is lamenting their midterms. Outside, the flowers are in bloom—reds and yellows bursting like they forgot winter ever happened.

And for just a second, everything feels vivid.

When I meditate, I sometimes glimpse this version of the world—unfiltered, unscrolled. I feel calm. Still. A little more like myself. I wish I could carry that feeling with me throughout the day. I think the human experience—including my human experience—is kind of beautiful.

Why I'd let the noise drown this out is beyond me.