Late at night the invisible part of my head spins in circles. My body is motionless, lying flat on my bed. When I’m still, all the motion of the past and of the future becomes still with me. The times stay in the past and future and do not come to visit me now. I am in the in between. I’ll lay there, eyes pointed toward the ceiling, lights off, eyelids down. And the calm of the in between is a refuge.
I lost the in between when I grew up. I couldn’t not think about the things I needed to do, or the things I did or didn’t do, and the days never left my sight. I forgot the darkness of that place, and how that darkness could be brighter than any day in the sun. Or most days. I don’t know if I’ve found a life better than the in between. I believe it’s out there. But at least for now, I can connect with my bed and the soft and restful and the dark and silent and be still.