an account of introversion

She whispers her thinking in her head as she rocks, not attending to the fact that she is waiting for the moment when her thoughts’ waves will calm to just ripples and it will be self-evident that it is time to rise and go to bed.  There is permission in that moment for the undangerous hollow of sadness, permission that she does not need to give herself, but arrives unannounced as she stares at the wall or through the window or the tea, and then is with her.  And she falls into it for the infinite time of enough, until the waves, crashing, that she does not care to share, nor knows how to, have finally been seen and listened to and find their way to the settled lapping.  She has now drunk of the cup and it is time to rise and steadily get ready for bed.  The quiet will stay until morning.