A - Kind Of Madness Dthrip

They call it a kind of madness, the need to correct the uncorrectable. My doctor—a man with the emotional range of a parking meter—called it "subclinical obsessive-compulsive patterning." I call it the Hum. Because it isn't thoughts. It's a frequency. A low, patient thrum that says: that chair is two millimeters out of alignment with the window frame. Fix it. No, not with your hands. With your mind. Fail, and we will hum louder.

That is the kind of madness I mean: the kind that looks like diligence. The kind that wears a collared shirt and pays its bills on time and never misses a dental appointment. The kind that smiles at the pharmacist and says, "Just the usual," while inside, a tiny, furious god is rearranging the vowels in the word refrigerator to see if it spells anything ominous. a kind of madness dthrip

The rug has no wrinkles. I checked. Twice. They call it a kind of madness, the

And that, my friend, is a kind of sanity no one warns you about. It's a frequency

And then I'll put it back.

So here I am, writing this on the back of a grocery receipt, because the Hum doesn't like the sound of keyboard clicks— too many variables, too many possible patterns . I am not asking for help. Help would require explaining that the problem isn't the shakers, or the rug, or the crumb from this morning (which I finally swept up, then put back, then swept again, just to feel the relief of a decision, even a wrong one).