Grey Matter Static

Static

They say static is only noise

the crackle between stations,

the hiss before a song remembers its name,

the tiny sparks that leap

when fingertips meet a doorknob

after wandering across old carpet.

They are wrong.

Static has weight.

It lingers

in rooms where apologies

arrived a little too late.

It hums beneath conversations

where mouths say,

"I'm fine,"

while hearts broadcast

on entirely different frequencies.

It lives in the charged air

before summer rain,

where magpies fall silent

and gum leaves hold their breath,

waiting for the sky

to decide who it wants to become.

I have seen static.

Not on a television.

On the back of an old elephant

standing in a paddock,

where ears as wide as sails

flapped once...

then twice...

until every stubborn hair

stood proudly to attention

like tiny soldiers saluting the wind.

He looked surprised.

The cockatoos laughed.

The breeze pretended

it had nothing to do with it.

Static is mischievous like that.

It tangles thoughts.

It turns certainty into whispers,

maps into question marks,

and perfectly sensible hairstyles

into wild declarations of independence.

Yet...

without static,

how would we know

the signal was trying to find us?

Every crackle

is proof

that somewhere,

beyond the interference,

someone is still speaking.

Every hiss

is hope wearing work boots.

Every crossed signal

is simply a conversation

that hasn't quite arrived.

So now,

when the world grows noisy,

when grief buzzes beneath my ribs

or worry makes my skin feel

one spark away from lightning,

I think of that elephant.

Standing quietly.

Hair pointing in impossible directions.

Listening...

not to the noise,

but to the music

waiting patiently

on the other side.

Because perhaps

static was never the ending

of the story.

Perhaps...

it was simply

the sound

of the universe

clearing its throat

before saying something

worth hearing.