24/12/2025
Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the mind,
The thoughts kept on moving, uneven, unlined.
Not neatly in order, not ready for rest,
Just sounds and sensations, more felt than expressed.
The world had been loud in a hundred small ways,
Too many demands stacked through too many days.
Lights, voices, decisions that never quite end,
All asking the nervous system more than it can lend.
So nothing was pushed, and nothing was fixed.
No need to feel calm or correctly unmixed.
The body was allowed to just be as it was,
Alert or exhausted, without needing a cause.
Thoughts came like patterns, familiar, repeated.
Some half-formed, some sharp, some easily heated.
They weren’t a problem to solve or contain,
Just signals moving through effort and strain.
Rest didn’t arrive like a switch being turned,
But slowly, in moments where pressure adjourned.
A dimming, a softening, space in between,
Where nothing was asked and nothing demeaned.
There was room for stimming, for movement, for pause.
For comfort that didn’t need reason or cause.
For quiet that wasn’t completely still,
Just gentle enough to meet the will.
And in that allowance, no rules and no demand,
The mind found a rhythm it could understand.
Not peace like a promise, not joy dressed in light,
Just enough room to exist through the night.
