Intrusive Thoughts

A mind, a quiet room, suddenly the door bursts open, uninvited guests with muddy boots, tracking dread across the clean carpet of my peace. They whisper, sharp as glass shards, "What if the sky falls, right now, a blue ceramic bowl shattering?" Or "Did you lock the door? Really? Is the stove off? Are you sure?" A fly buzzing, trapped behind my eyes, its frantic dance an echo of their words. They paint scenarios with lurid brushstrokes: a loved one's face, distorted, in a sudden, imagined accident. My hand on the wheel, swerving, for no reason, into oncoming light. These are not my thoughts, yet they are here, like static on a clear radio station, brief, unsettling bursts of noise. A spider dropping, silken thread unseen, from the ceiling of my calm, dangling just before my face, a momentary shiver. I watch them, these phantom limbs of fear, detached, yet tethered to the softest parts of me. I learn to breathe around them, to let them pass like clouds across a vast, indifferent sky, knowing they will fade, leaving only the quiet room again.