The Hum: A World Beyond Explanation

It started subtly, I think—the way things often do. Not a bang, not a crash, but this…pressure. A feeling more than a sound, really, though that's what people keep calling it: “The Hum.” Mom always said when something felt wrong, it was worth investigating, and that’s exactly what seems to be happening here. It feels like the air itself is vibrating at a frequency just below what I can fully register, an insistent thrum against my bones instead of in my ears.

I remember feeling something similar once after the National show. The bass drum wasn't as loud as I expected, not physically painful, but it *moved* you. It settled in your chest and rearranged everything for a while afterward. This is different though; this isn’t music. There’s no predictable rhythm to latch onto, no melody to hum along with—just…presence. It's unsettling.

Dad doesn’t understand the preoccupation with it either. He scrolled through an article about it last night and just shrugged. "Probably something they can explain," he said, going back to the game on TV. That’s how he deals with things that don’t fit neatly into his understanding of the world – compartmentalization. Mom read me a different piece online, one talking about the anxiety it causes some people, the sleepless nights and the constant worry. She was quiet afterwards. I think she gets it more than he does.

There are forums dedicated to The Hum now, sprawling digital landscapes where people share their experiences across continents. They describe it in similar ways—a low rumble, a persistent vibration, a feeling of unease that clings to everything. One post just said “It’s always there.” It's unsettling to know other people feel this too; less lonely, but also somehow…more significant than it should be. Like a global sigh of worry.

The scientists are trying, I guess. They deploy sensitive instruments—geophones, infrasound detectors—and pore over data sets looking for patterns, sources, explanations. Early theories ranged from military experiments to tectonic activity to something…else entirely. Now, they’re talking about things like background noise pollution and geological processes, trying to find a common denominator in what seems inherently individual. It's that searching that feels so frustrating—the gap between the collective feeling and the scientific language used to try and categorize it.

I keep thinking about Phoebe Bridgers' lyrics sometimes. The way she describes loneliness and longing – there’s something in that same space, this quiet desperation of a world trying to understand something just beyond its grasp. You write into those feelings because you have to—it's an impulse I recognize now, a desire to find form for the shapeless anxiety building up inside. It doesn't solve anything, but it acknowledges it.

What’s hardest is knowing there might not *be* a solution. That maybe this Hum isn’t something that will be “explained away.” Maybe it’s just…part of the background now, a constant reminder of the vastness and unknowability of things beyond our control. Like static on an old radio – sometimes you can hear through it, but mostly it's just noise.

Maybe someday I won’t notice it as much. Or maybe it will escalate into something more, something that isn’t so easily ignored. But right now, all I know is that the pressure persists, a subtle tremor woven into the fabric of everything. And somehow, writing about it feels like acknowledging that tremor—giving it a name, even if I don’t have an answer to what it means.