My white noise is the twenty-something year olds I still have screaming in my memories of triage at 2 am in the morning in the pouring rain and then starting their autopsies 4 hours later.
I’ll never forget the one who was screaming with all his limbs blown fresh off while the chaplain with his clerical collar—flickering like a broken neon sign every time lightning flashed—provided comfort with mementos of God’s plan.
That white noise became a foundational hum and the resonating frequency that, instead of fading into the background as time passed—became a jack hammer in my brain.
It was a full ontological recalibration of my childhood naivety—not only did the passage of time fail to rationalize those experiences; those experiences became the new origin point from which everything was measured—silence and peace was no longer the absence of noise, but the brief, interstitial moments between the frequencies of that hum and the flickering of that collar on God’s dog.
Decompiling obsessions. 