But the way to Silence is chaotic, I find.
Like a recalcitrant, protesting child being hushed, patted, cajoled, murmured into quiescence.
Losing immediate fodder for its grind, the mind digs deeper, and brings up older, forgotten layers.
"I thought we were done with that," I thought in dismay, when it brought forward an old, particularly nasty aspect. I slept lightly, woke up in the small hours and remembered - uncharacteristically - every dream that had segued into the next in a playlist from my hell.
But it was good. A sensation lingered between the brows throughout. I got a few shelves cleaned, repaired a few garments... and I have the trick now.