The Constant Hum

(A Poem)

It settled in the marrow, not a sudden storm, but a persistent drizzle of knowledge, a static whisper behind the roar of traffic.

The world did not change, not in the way they show in films. The cracks merely deepened, the paint peeled back from the illusion.

Every stranger now a book, their unspoken fears, their buried hopes, a faint perfume on the wind, a melody only I can hear.

And the shadows? They are no longer mere absence of light, but hungry things, stretching, their edges vibrating with unseen purpose.

Sometimes, I cup my ears, try to drown out the symphony of secrets, the thrum of anima in the pavement, the desperate pulse of the dying planet.

But it is in me now, the constant hum, the terrible, beautiful truth of everything. And I am utterly alone in its deafening embrace.