echo echo echo

When I’m in the middle of a panic attack, the world doesn’t just speed up — it loses shape. The edges blur. My body becomes too loud, and the space around me starts to fold in. I can’t tell where I end and the outside begins.

That’s not something I can describe in words. But I’ve started to notice: I can describe it in sound.

Reverb, when pushed too far, stops sounding like space and starts sounding like memory. Panning between the left and right ear creates a kind of dizziness — like my thoughts are running around inside my skull. White noise fills the room like fog.

I’ve been recording in empty stairwells, bathrooms, places with hard reflections. Spaces that don’t absorb anything. Because that’s what panic feels like: bouncing off surfaces with no place to land.

I think I’m starting to realize that “space” in sound art isn’t just about acoustics. It’s about perception. And in my case, it’s about emotional distortion.

I’m not trying to recreate a real room. I’m trying to build an impossible one — a room that breathes like my anxiety does. One that shifts shape every time you try to hold it still.