How do I want to retire?
Weirdly.
And did you know cows can swim?
There’s a certain hour of the night, not really night anymore, but not quite morning either. That liminal space, like the void between two episodes on a streaming service, when it’s just the spinning circle and your reflection in the black screen. That hour.
That’s when your brain sits up.
You lay down in your bed, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. You know? Lie down, close your eyes, wait for sleep.
But your brain doesn’t lie down. No, it sits up, crosses its legs, elbows on its knees, chin in its hand like it’s about to read you your own biography, out loud. And you’re the only one in the audience.
It wants to talk.
Not about anything urgent.
Just, you know, everything.
What you said six years ago at that party where you meant to be funny, but actually you were kinda rude and someone’s face changed just a little and you still think about it every now and then. Why your left knee has become a weather reporter. What happens if your alarm doesn’t go off? What happens if it does go off and you just ignore it? Did you even set the alarm? Are you sure?
Why haven’t you cleaned out the fridge?
No, really, there’s a smell in there. It’s evolving.
And hey, how’d your brain know that? Weird.
You can feel it, that weird, jittery, toddler energy. Like your mind drank espresso through a Twizzler straw, even though you didn’t. Like it’s standing in the hallway with a blanket cape, demanding juice and justice. It remembers when you were seven, when they made you go to bed and you weren’t tired. And now? It’s payback time. Every night, roughly the same time. No interest, just principle.
And that’s when the real thoughts come in. Not the big ones, the weird ones.
Can cows swim?
No, seriously.
They can, right?
Wait. I think they can. They have legs, they float, that checks out.
Do they enjoy it though?
See? This is the part. The stuff you think doesn’t belong. But it does. It’s the seasoning, the breadcrumb trail, the thing people read and go, “Oh my god, me too.”
So yeah, the fridge is still dirty.
The alarm probably won’t go off.
And cows? They’re fine, they’re floatin’.
You?
You’re just trying to get to sleep.
But your brain’s still up.
And it has questions.
So anyway, you’re lying there, in bed, doing your best impression of someone who’s about to fall asleep. And then it happens. The spiral. You ask, can cows swim? You say it out loud, even if no one’s there. Because that’s the kind of question that demands to be voiced. Like if it stays in your head too long it might start echoing.
And yes, you Google it. Don’t pretend you didn’t. They can. They’re good at it. They swim for fun.
You don’t imagine your burgers out here enjoying a little dip in the pond, but apparently, they do. Just cooling off, hooves in the current, probably laughing in cow-language like, “Moo, this is the life!” Suddenly your brain’s gone full Pixar. There’s a cow in a splash pad now. Like, actually having a blast. Zooming through the mist, slapping a hoof down on one of those little floor jets, tail twitching like a sprinkler. Pure joy.
(They’d probably like that too.)
And you don’t even stop there. You remember the Mythbusters episode with the bull in the china shop. Turns out the bull was gentle. Careful. Didn’t break a damn thing. The legend was wrong. Just like this one. And now you’re thinking about calves. Baby cows. Clumsy, knobby-legged, all excited. Running through a splash pad like they just discovered gravity and decided not to believe in it.
Yeah. You’d watch that video.
You’d scroll past all the serious news just to watch it.
Maybe even twice.
And here’s the thing. These thought quests? They don’t always go somewhere. Sometimes they just loop back, sit down beside you, and say, “Hey. This is where we’re at tonight.”
And weirdly, that’s enough.
But sometimes, like tonight, these thought quests? They actually teach you something.
Not about cows.
Not about fridges.
Not even about why your alarm clock gives off serial killer energy.
No, what you realize is, this is the science of being human. It’s not random. It’s ontological. It’s built in, coded into the folds of your half-sleeping, half-screaming brain. There’s a name for it, of course there is. Hypnagogic thinking. Hard to say. Harder to spell. But your brain already knows how to do it. It’s that weird state between awake and asleep, where you start seeing pictures, making wild connections, half-hearing music that isn’t playing, remembering things that never happened.
You think you’re losing your grip? Nah.
You’re just slipping into the good part.
Scientifically, this is when your prefrontal cortex, the bossy, logical part of your brain, starts powering down. The filters go offline. The thoughts get looser. Weird associations start flying in, like dream-logic’s drunk cousin. Alpha waves turn to theta. You’re drifting.
And suddenly, without realizing it, you’re healing. Because guess what lights up in that state? The Default Mode Network. The DMN. It’s like the backstage crew of your consciousness. It handles wandering, reflection, old memories, and storytelling And when you let it do its thing? It processes trauma. It helps you reorganize pain without making you relive it. It plays cow-in-a-splash-pad while your real life waits at the door.
And here’s the thing about ADHD. It kind of lives in that state.That fast, non-linear, free-associative place where logic is optional and imagination kicks down the doors.
The ADHD brain doesn’t ease into hypnagogia. It is hypnagogia. Just, all day.
That Default Mode Network? It’s always humming. Always turning the volume up on inner thoughts and sideways observations. But it doesn’t filter well. So instead of one calm stream, it’s sixteen garden hoses and a disco ball.
But you can use that. There’s a trick.
It’s called the Alphabet Game. Insomniacs use it. CBT therapists recommend it. And it works because it’s weird. Low-stakes. Delightfully dumb.
Pick a letter.
Now pick a word.
But don’t make it the obvious word.
M is for Altoids.
O is for Small.
O is for Tomorrow, because, sure, why not.
Milk that pun. (I regret nothing)
You’re not solving anything. You’re not performing. You’re drifting, and that’s the point. It nudges your brain into freeform. It says, “Hey, let’s play instead of panic.” And when you’re playing, your Default Mode Network goes, “Cool, I can work with this,” and the chaos starts to quiet.
It doesn’t always work. But when it does? You’re out before you realize you were even close.
So yeah, your brain’s weird at night. So is mine. So is everyone’s. And honestly, thank god for that. Because sometimes, following that beat, that stray, looping, ridiculous mental drum that leads you away from your inbox and into some late-night livestock trivia? That’s where the good stuff lives.
Like cows.
Did you know they love to play? I know. You see them in pastures, just standing. Just, existing. Like they’ve transcended ambition. But secretly? They’re goofballs.
They’ll play with giant balls. Soccer balls, yoga balls, basketballs, whatever rolls. Some even go wild for orange traffic cones.
I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the color. Maybe it’s because cones look like a weird little animal with a pointy hat. But cows will push them around like toddlers discovering gravity.
They run, they chase, they play fight. They establish their pecking order that way. Which is adorable and somehow more mature than how most humans do it. .
And yeah, they form bonds. With each other. With humans. They have best friends. Real ones. They get stressed when they’re separated. They’ll follow you around, nudge your hand for pets, and remember you. Not in a “hey you seem familiar” way. In a “you scratched behind my ear once and that meant something” kind of way.
Play is vital to them. Not optional. Not extra. Vital. It keeps them mentally sharp, emotionally grounded, and socially connected.
Sound familiar?
So the next time you’re chewing on your utterly delicious burger from Wendy’s, remember:
That patty might have once had a best friend.
And a favorite traffic cone.
And a weird talent for dribbling a basketball across a muddy field.
Bravo, or… moo-vo. Whatever. You earned it.
And if that doesn’t humble you at least a little bit, maybe you need a splash pad moment too.
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