I woke up with a sharp pain in my head, loud voices banging inside my skull. I couldn’t understand anything—only moaned in pain. It felt like a chaotic radio that wouldn’t turn off. When I finally calmed down, I realized that the voice I was hearing was my roommate silently arguing with the alarm clock.
What was happening? Why was I hearing her voice in my head? As I tried to process what was going on, my roommate walked in, looking annoyed, and asked why I had been screaming at 7 a.m. I could hear her thoughts again—why was she thinking about tuna fish, anyway? That’s when I realized I could hear people’s thoughts. I didn’t tell anyone, because who would believe me anyway?
I decided I had to focus. I started with small places where clarity mattered most. I went to the local animal shelter. The dogs’ thoughts were pure: a desire for a walk, a soft bed, a scratch behind the ears. I could tell which dog needed the most patience and which one was truly ready for a family. My quiet advice to the staff helped match a nervous terrier with a gentle elderly lady, and a playful, energetic golden retriever with a young couple.
Next, I went to a community meeting about a new park. The arguments were heated, but the thoughts were surprisingly simple: parents wanted a safe place for their children, away from noise and traffic. I stood up, walked over to a staff member, and suggested a design with a walking path, a playground, and sound barriers. The room went quiet, with nods of agreement. It felt warm and fulfilling to help people.
It was exhausting to run around like that, but for the first time, I felt that I was using the noise to find harmony. I wasn’t using it for profit or power—just for a bit of quiet understanding in a loud world.