It’s quiet. It’s calm. It’s late Sunday night, early Monday morning.

I’ve put everything in its place. I’ve done as much as I need to do, as much as I thought I would do.

Some food show, some channel I left on hours ago, is counting down food. It’s at a barely audible volume. I was pushing through some deadlines for work. But I left that off about 40 minutes ago. Since then, I picked a few things up. I cleaned a few things. I got some coffee ready for late tomorrow morning. I actually took notice of my smoking, rather than smoking without even knowing it – yes, more than five, I know.

With no particular reason to, I shaved off four or five days of scruff. I took a very long bath. Murphy came and sat beside the tub. In the tub I remembered how to breathe. All the way down. Hold it. Let it go. After my bath I covered myself in moisturizer. I like the smell of this one that I have. Murph sniffed at me. She loves the smell of oily things. My cheeks are so smooth. I’m breathing from my diaphragm. All the way down. Hold it. Let it go.

I wanted some comfort. I thought I’d have a hot chocolate. I even put a little Kahulua in it. And some cream. And some Equal. I make my hot cho like I make my coffee. I put all the accessories in first. The kettle was boiling and my cup was ready and I remembered I didn’t have any hot chocolate. So I just added some more Equal and a little cinnamon and I melted a Ferrero Rochero in it. It turned out messy but it’s still tasty, it’s still comforting. I didn’t, as I usually do, think that God was snickering at me. Yes, sufficiently chocolately; yes, sufficiently comforting.

I’ve turned the TV off. I’m not listening to music right now. I’m listening to the hum of my humidifier. I’m listening to a sleeping world. I’m listening to Murphy, beside me on the couch breathing in her sleep. The keyboard, the keys, the typing is an obscene noise. Is there no way to make a whisper quiet keyboard? It’s an unpleasant sound. It sounds productive, I suppose. But I’d prefer a mute keyboard. We must have the technology to make such a thing. Maybe we can make an electronic one with a switch. Turn it on to sound productive and to remind the older generation of the efficiency of a typewriter; turn it off to sound not at all.

I stretched. I stretched the pain and urgency and work out of my shoulders. I stretched the hurt and the ache out of my neck. I stretched the loneliness and the malaise out of my wrists, my toes, my chest.

My hot chocolate is empty. My cigarette is dead. I stop typing to listen to the perfect silence. Yes my computer fan throws out a hum; yes the humidifier makes a small constant huffing noise. Yes, Murph still breathes in her gentle sleep. But those sounds mark the silence. Silence for the restless. Meditation for the restless. All the way down. Hold it. Let it go.

I don’t want to go to bed. I prefer the drowsy silence right now to actually sleeping. Still, I suppose I should.

SS