I find peace in the quiet.
I know my place within its safe, protected, calming boundaries.
Like the calming cocoon of falling water from the showerhead; or an arduous hike to find clarity in the familiarity of an aching back or chirping winged creature or the way the soft dust finds its way between my toes; or the looming introvert-in-the-corner stares from the seemingly detached, heartless but actually succumbed to the overwhelming emotional pondering and debilitating, but ultimately useless, hyperbolic hypotheses that seem to only make sense in the fecund, fervent world of soap opera.
It's what makes sense.
And it's a skill I learned long ago, in a household where I can raise my voice the loudest was tantamount to Chief Communicator status. Or quite simply a household in perpetual shuddering reverberation from a deeply flawed and violent tyrant.
But regardless of its functional place in my world, it's still a cocoon removed from the realities and consequences of the life I'm living. It's still an act of fleeing. Rather than an act of support, warmth, and love.
I'm working on that.