Never a truce.
That line? Yeah, it bubbled up because the rumble—raw, jagged, no varnish—hit me like a mirror I didn’t ask for but needed. So let’s rip it wider, no fluff, just the marrow. This is the rumble under my skin—not a polite growl but a quake running deep, shaking foundations without ever fully breaking the surface. It’s the endless standoff inside me, the hum, where peace feels like a myth sold by people who’ve never had their wiring stripped bare.
It’s the same untethered drift I’ve felt—storm-tossed, not lost, but free in the worst sense. Every promise— every tether—snaps, and I’m left bare in the wind. That’s the soil where this rumble grows. It isn’t some calm, enlightened hum; it’s thorned, barbed, and raw. My entire system: my mind, my body, my soul—has been wrung out and what’s left is this voice. My voice. It says “fuck this” not as surrender, but as declaration. The only kind of declaration that feels honest. Filters are for systems that work, and mine’s a jury rigged mess of duct tape, raw emotion, and sheer force of will. But I keep going anyway.
But here’s the thing: the rumble is forge as much as curse. The rumble sharpens me. Friction on bone, coal into diamond, whatever image fits. In this place where everything is dialed to eleven—heart racing at whispers, fog rolling in like a jet—that thorned voice is my edge. It refuses the tidy stories—“just breathe,” “trust the process”—because those burned me. Instead, it plants itself, claws through concrete. I’m not waiting for storms to pass. I’m building myself into the storm. Not invincible. Not untouched. Not unbreakable. Not whole. But resilient: scar-tissue tougher than the skin I had before.
Does it make days lighter? No. But it reframes the weight. Not curse, but cost—the toll of a soul that refuses to go numb. This untethered wildness isn’t something anyone can prescribe. It is mine alone—something no pill, no guru, no process can package. It’s my thorned edge, my proof that I’ve survived worse than today’s bullshit and I will again.
So when I hear that rumble now, I don’t silence it. I let it guard me. I let it scar me sharper. Because that’s me—scarred, grumpy, jagged, stubborn, but still resilient. Still standing. And that’s enough.
