Hello, my name is Rose. Sometimes I write things, but inspiration is a bit fickle. Feedback is welcome. Appreciate ya.
The night is a strange atmosphere, I think. I don’t view it as a certain time anymore; I see it as a place, a hidden realm of the universe. A place few people get to see fully, a place of mystery and beauty. Being nocturnal like I am is not a setback, or an inconvenience, it’s a privilege. I get to experience night time as a living, breathing thing, just as alive as the day, and far more beautiful in my eyes. I rise as the first tendrils of evening darkness stretch across the sky, inky blackness eventually settling over everything. It’s funny, you never really get to appreciate the stars until you live beneath them. They glow above me as I walk down the winding roads of my city, dotting the sable dome of the night sky like pearls on a velvet choker.
The night is mercurial. Sometimes the night feels cold, and dangerous. Sometimes I don’t leave my house at all during what I call a day. Sometimes the night is thriving and pulsing with sound and living darkness and the steady slow breath of all manners of creatures. These nights are my favorite. I slip out the back door and rejoice at how alive everything is. I watch people on the streets, laughing and pointing out the beauty of the moon and the stars. I practically dance across the slick pavement, challenging the darkness, reveling in it, praising it. Everyone feels it, the rhythm pulsing through them, the sheer energy of it all and they leap and dance and laugh with me. We are alive, and beautiful, and the night rejoices with us, shadows dancing across the pavement and moonlight streaming down on us. This is the night, and we are a part of it. The sun drowns out our beauty with its flaxen light, but the moon illuminates us, the stars cheer us on, and the streetlights brighten our eyes, skin turning golden under their radiance.
Sometimes the night is exactly what other people think of it, quiet and peaceful. A great contrast to the living nights, but equally lovely. The moonlight is not quite so bold, but its light is gentle, and comforting. The stars are not as bright, but still they shine softly, pale silver specks in the sky. The sky is different these nights, not pitch black and roiling, but a charcoal color, as if it is trying to match the serenity of it all. These are the thoughtful nights, nights of dark dreams, nights of revelations. I talk to myself, and the night listens, or at least it doesn’t interrupt. Sometimes people join me, but this is rare. Most people stay in on these nights. They are disregarded, passed over. This is fine. Those who are nocturnal are used to the quiet of one voice, one body, and one mind.
The night is my home. I feel safe in the darkness, because I know it. I thrive in it, and I live off of it. I could no more survive in the day than a man swinging on a noose could. So, I bid you. Just once, try living as I do. Rise in the evening, fall at dawn. Experience the night, soak in the blackness, breathe in the crisp air. Live in the shadows, bathe in the moonlight. Dance on the pavement, run down the streets like a kid, laugh and leap and take it all in. Let the darkness in, and it will soon be as necessary as oxygen. Welcome the night, and eventually it will become a part of you.