The bass from the speakers vibrates the room and asks if I am more man than machine. I resist the urge to archive the message, since my mentor told me to be open to surreptitious spontaneity. But it's uncomfortable sitting in silence. Or, what would be silence had the dollar store gizmo in the corner of the room not creak like tv static. I begin to notice all the incongruities I usually fold over by assigning myself another ticket at work. Nobody wants to admit they took a wrong turn 5 miles ago.

So I march on, fingers walking left-then-right to the beating thumps of Helblinde's 200 BPM collection. How ironic is it that industry stole the soul from society, yet we synthesized new symphonies from their imperfectly regular pulse. But what do I know of the toils of factory works? I'm not a writer.

To take a break from the noise is luxury. Some march their entire lives unaware that they could change the tempo at any time. They argue that it is not them, but 'they' that controls the speed, and those who think themselves in control are playing into 'their' machinations. Thought I don't really mind that. All of physics and chemistry are the stage, and we are but the erratic afterimages of forces pushing and pulling.

For I am not drawn to the rhythm of my own beating heart, but of the pace of the world. To the tap dance of fingers on keys and clicks of mice. To the jazz of laughter. To the mellow tides of idle conversation. To the comforting chorus, "I love you." I sing to thee.

In the silence I find myself, and only myself. I've heard of geographic cures, where exotic locations fill the traveler with such fear and awe of the Lord that their worries become shells then break free from their souls with fully-grown wings. But I've learned that in many cases, you take your problems with you. Such it is with silence, the stimuli making you keenly aware of everything, or nothing but yourself, or what's the difference?

For kids like me, we've been here before. I know all the good hiding spots. I know where we keep the good blankets. I know which parts of the house are haunted. I know which rooms have spikes on the ground (really, been meaning to change those out forever now. One day...). I know it all. Yet they say this is better?

Well, not 'they', but my they. Okay not my they, just my expectations. After a lifetime of being a vessel at sea, crashed upon by waves and wind and storm and monster, what else should I want but to rest? Alas, I go back in. All I ask is for waters I understand. Or at the very least, the power to comprehend the waves I am in.

The solace of the storm remains solace in the sunlight. India would loathe to be a British commonwealth, yet where would they be without tea and cricket? We never stop being a baby wishing to be swaddled in silk and softness. We just buy bigger blankets as we outgrow them. That is not a call to abolish all comfort, but that change is inevitable, and so the resistance.

So while Google maps said to make a right 5 miles ago, there's an cozy little Italian place at the end of the street. And then we keep coming back, because we already know how to get here. And we keep listening to helblinde, even though we know it's basically just fancier faster nightcore. And we keep the corporate job, because I found meaning anyways. And we keep the spikes on the floor, because dancing around them has come down to muscle memory. And I'm good at it.

And I keep marching, to the beat of this drum or that drum or maybe her drum, because it's fun, and I can walk along with the people I love.

See, I'm not a writer, because I would've already come up with something new.