I’m not even sure if I want to put into words how much I love the night. Surely you find some love for sunsets too?
Many make it out all melancholic but that’s no fun. I will admit that the sunset is a little melancholic. But a sunrise can be too.
A sunrise comes with all sorts of expectations, and a memo in bold labeled “THE DAY – use wisely” which just is a big sore and pain.
You can imagine the executive with a long list of items due today and feeling smug with a fourth cup of coffee. No thanks.
And you could retort – well, I’ll retort for you: you just aren’t trying. And you aren’t because you’re afraid of failing. Which, sure, maybe, but I’m not so sure what one wins anyway. “Get up early!” For what? The executive views the same sunset on the 84th floor. The same sunset. The same as me hanging off rails along the mini beachside for a fork in the road, bike leaning.
No, no, I don’t want any part of this at all. Let the streetlights blend in some uncontrollable manner; I’m not delusional about what a speck I am. And no, I don’t even want to be anything else really. So the night helps us all here. It’s a silent helper.
In the night, there are no names. There is no objective. There are no big plans, nor hours: after sunset all the seconds swing indifferently whether 2 a.m. or 7 a.m. – not that I would know anymore. Nightdwellers don’t need clocks.
No one to talk to, no one who needs talking. No sounds, but make some if you want.
No labels. Nothing else other the same whirr of electricity slashing through still air. A nice mesh hue glowing off tri-color lights. Convenience stores keep calm.
Yeah, I don’t want to care about all that other stuff. Just give me my late walk. Give me some empty roads. No more noise. Fog rolling in.
And the night grants and grants away.
The night is the closest thing to pulling back all the games and letting it display. Walking along this sidewalk there’ll be no one else. Same as a grave, or a big dream. The 84th floor waits in vain for the night grants the same.
I don’t want to be ruled by “days” or “clocks” or any other things. The night keeps it all amorphous, even to a point where I don’t know the months anymore. Maybe it’ll turn into years. Maybe it’ll turn into a life.
Sure, life passes but it passes in front of me, not behind me, not while making plans and flipping through contacts or climbing ladders to the same sunset. Chugging down drinks to pass out alone in my room regardless. No need.
The night is perfect. The only way I can dissolve away everything. Don’t even want to know who I am or why. Labels negate and etc.
Let your shoulders down now. There’s no one looking, and there’s no one coming for awhile. So the internal nagging goes away and all those other strange ideas you got to fend your feeling against.
Release.