Words flow from me easiest at night. Late at night, when most people have gone to sleep. Until almost before the dawn. It’s hard to write of joy and laughter when the sun’s not around. Nighttime is for wistfulness, tears, and infinite sadness. Anything else that happens during the dark is a distraction from the journey through pain.
Even beauty at night, even that, is tinted with melancholy.
I think a lot at night. Navel and window-gazing too. Have I ever told you that I find solace in street lights? Late at night, less distractions mean I’m not focusing on getting through, running errands, earning a living. At night, time is luxury. Retrospection+memory.
I rarely think of the dead during sunlight hours. When the day is that young, death is hours removed. I rarely think of pain before dusk. And I never cry during the day. Only late late late at night.
Recently, I’ve been trying to maintain a normal schedule. Up and at ’em by eight. I’m stopping that until I need to again. I need these late hours for sinking. When it’s warmer, I’ll start walking again. Let that orange glow hit my skin.