Eviction Notice

 I finally stopped letting the vampires bleed me. I cut the cords, let the toxic attachments drop like dead weight, and I thought I’d won. But then the world turned its volume up, a static hum of global chaos trying to vibrate my bones. They told me the sky was falling, I laughed, until the falling elements actually hit the glass.

But here’s the thing about a storm: It’s only a threat if you let it inside. From behind the deadbolt, the wind is just a ghost with no hands. I looked at the walls of my house, then I looked at the walls of my soul, and I realized I’d been leaving the windows wide open, letting every passing tempest track mud across my sanctuary.

My spirit is a temple, not a storm shelter. I am the high priest of this headspace, the bouncer at the door of my own heart. When the "spiritual tempests" come knocking— The loud-mouthed, the soul-drainers, the architects of outrage— I don't have to invite them in for tea.

I don’t argue with the storm. I don't ask the wind to justify its howl. I just reinforce the perimeter. I tell the chaos: “You don’t live here anymore.” I pull the shades. I raise the shields.

Detachment isn’t cold; it’s a fire in the hearth. It’s the priceless gift of a quiet room in a loud world. The storm can scream until its throat is raw— But on this side of the line? The air is still. The storm is evicted.