It’s like a static, not too unlike white noise in the essence that it is capable of tricking the ears into hearing that which is not there. It’s referred to medically as white noise speech illusion.
Static… talk radio… static… a generic 1930’s big band era playing nondescript music… more static.
It used to be a symptom that came over to visit, living rent-free in my head for a while, until that time came in which it no longer derived pleasure from my suffering and went away, only to show up again in the future.
Now the freeloader has decided to stay. Static. Rumba. Talk radio. Horrible 1990’s cartoons on an out-of-tune station.
More static.
All of the little tricks I used to use to usher his early exit from my mind have all fallen on his apparently deaf ears. The louder I scream, the broader his grin; his fingers lithe and nimble on the selection knob of the radio, never staying long.
Jazz. Talking. More swing. Heavy Metal with no lyrics, instrumental for the first thirty minutes until finally the blissful release of only hearing the static comes once more.
I can’t reach the radio knob or the power cord. He won’t take his fingers off of the channel selector knob.
One of us has got to go.