I read an upsetting story today about an Argentinian man who’s been haunted by screams.
At first—I thought, ‘well, where’s the proof?’ As I read, I became more concerned.
They said that anyone who was around the Argentinian man could also hear these screams—and they were in English, described by the reporter as, “expletive-filled.”
It couldn’t be, I thought. The more I read the more it lined up and I started to feel really bad. These screams, the Argentinian man said, mostly came at night, so the time difference added up. Then read off a few of the exact words the man had been hearing.
That confirmed it.
See, I have this habit. I often want to scream really loud—when I’m frustrated, bored, upset, angry—I want to scream. I can’t. It would bother people around me. I’m not concerned about it bothering them—I am concerned about their bother migrating over to me in the form of complaints, increasing my desire to scream.
So, I’ve started screaming silently. I open my mouth and go through all of the motions of screaming. Screaming about my life, my unsatisfying job, my failing relationship, my overall dissatisfaction with what the world turned out to be in practice.
At first—it only made my desire to actually scream greater—an impotent tease. Then I got it into my head that maybe I could put the screams somewhere else. It has become my daily morning routine—like meditating. I’ll sit, close my eyes, and scream, sending the sound far away to, apparently, scare the shit out of some poor Argentinian man.
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