I find my solace in the night time, when the sun has well and truly set, the expectations of the day thrown out the door along with the exhausted inspirational quotes that have sapped my serotonin stocks. The night sky twinkles with understated chemical energy and a gentle quiet has me crinkling my eyes to avert that burning sensation in my ducts. The night doesn’t require anything from you; the night is a friend who can sit with you through minutes of comfortable silence not needing to bring up gratuitous and flabby slabs of nothing. The night grounds my feet, yet elevates my soul. The night creates solidarity in solitude, it ties sadness into maddening gratitude and fosters hope when everything sort of meshes into a great hopelessness. Our messy thoughts can be tied back together, our fucked up lives can be accepted as just another cog of the cruel and unusual life we are supposed to lead and the contradictions that seem so desperately wrong in our big, fat hypocritical world blow over as the stars dot around the sky and shine into our hearts that darken through the day.
No one really understands the night. It is a complex beast. No one can stand there and tell you every minor detail of the night, unlike when some people claim to understand the beating heart of humanity and how it thinks and feels. You can’t turn the other cheek in the night time because every noise means something. The light buzz of an underground cicada, the tender murmur of a plane dashing through the sky to the next port of call and the whisper of secret lovers holding each other so tightly in fear that if they release, it will be the last they ever hear of their very own Juliet or Romeo. It is the sound of silence, the sound of a city settling down, wandering into a space where others cannot watch their every step and listen to their every word. The night becomes a desk for the writer who conjures up a new beginning, a settled middle and a satisfying end. I love the night because things start to make sense. My emerging sadness, the bristling frustration, the insatiable lust for connection. I don’t have to desperately chase it, or alternatively chase it away. I can sit in it, relax into it, knowing that no one else will challenge it, whatever ‘it’ may be.
I find peace at night, peace in my heart, peace in my soul, pieces of me that crumpled as I pushed aside my essential truth. I can let my eyes scan my surroundings; the waft of the desperate, the devilish and the disturbed no longer irritating my nostrils. The crush of life outside locked in my cupboard. Now it is just one man, the nocturnal melancholic, with his cock flapping in the wind, his hairs on his arms sticking up to salute the moon and the choir of voices flattened until the sun rises for another divisive morning. The night isn’t some overcomplicated genre where you can’t figure out who is what or what is who or how is why or where the fuck anything is supposed to go anymore. The night time just is. It just is what it is. And that simplicity is
bliss… kind of nice.