Went to sleep at 2 a.m. with Elle and woke up at 4:15 panicking about something but stayed in bed, didn’t say anything or move, and was soothed after a while when my dog stood up at the foot of the bed and looked at me in the dark and then curled up again and set his little head on my ankle as if he could tell something was wrong.
I got up at 5:30 to move Elle’s car (I have to do this for overnight guests, long story) and once I was up I felt a little better. Once I pulled up the laptop and started doing some work I felt fine. I wrote a post about what we did last night and now it’s just after 6 a.m., the sun’ll be up soon, I’m looking out the window toward the skyline, the dark, appreciating that the road is quiet outside my window and feeling weirdly calm. Soothed by the work, I guess. That the world hasn’t sparked up and intruded on things yet.
It’s a casual thing now to castigate people who can’t stand silence, who need music piping up at them all the time or need to be in some bustly outdoor place—we accuse them of not being comfortable with silence because they aren’t comfortable with their thoughts and pity the poor millennial who can’t enjoy a moment’s quiet.
Ahdunno if that’s necessarily me.
What if it is? Is that bad? It’s like if there’s nothing going on to actively freak me out, I take up arms and freak myself out.