The physiological calibration of my brain has shifted so far out of kilter that my consciousness sounds like an instrument that was detuned to sate the discordant reveries of a chaos monster.

As a result, harmonious reflection is nearly impossible. And when you’re going through a gauntlet of shit, the need for that mellifluous hum to permeate the soundscape your mind is paramount.

Otherwise, organizing your cognition in a positive, goal-directed way for any meaningful length of time becomes an exercise in futility.

If inner monologue is musical performance, then I can’t conduct mine right now, because the orchestra is filled with instruments producing an assault of incongruous sounds.

So I must accept the cacophony of my mind’s current inability to harmonize its constituent elements into an acoustic environment that induces a sense of optimism.