(no subject)
I'm up; it seems like I can't get any more sleep right now. I finished reading Coraline in bed, and now my fingers are craving a warm-up. The night is just dark enough, and the house is just quiet enough, that nothing hinders my thoughts. I can see them flow and swirl in the canvas of shadows before me, and I can hear them stealth melodiously in the silence. I've always written best late at night, when the darkness and the silence dance around me, and everything is still, everybody sleeps. That's when the appetite strikes me. Perhaps I hunger for dreams, jealous of those enjoying theirs while I have none, and so I write my own - but that seems like a feverish dream of its own, the tale of a murderer who seeks to reap the dreams of others, blade in hand as he steps slowly through the room, inching towards your bed, a shadow among shadows. I should let that one write itself out, it seems like a fun few pages. But no, it's not hunger or homicidal passions that keep me up at this hour and itch my fingers for the cool clicks of the keyboard, it's simply a focused mind. The darkness and the quiet seem to center me, give me clarity of thought - something I often have a hard time finding during the daytime, among the worries and tumults of daily routine. Life seems so overwrought with needless complications, burdensome bothers that make little sense parted from the constructed madness of their administrative contexts. The system within which daily life exist reeks of forced shallowness, of splurging unnecessity, a blind, mad run on a hamster-wheel of frivolity and unimportance. A forced run which breeds guilt in me, for the things I set aside, for the paralyzed state that the over-complications and unnecessities of daily life leave me in. In contrast, the darkness and silence of the night seems so simple, and its privacy seems to have an alluring depth of meaning. In many ways, nothing else matters in the enveloping, comforting darkness - it's just me, society and its madness have no way in. So being blessedly alone, the more important thoughts, the more important fantasies that get pushed away by the imposed pace of the quotidian race, can slip out undisturbed, to walk peacefully in a space that is unobtrusive and unoppresive, accepting of their hidden worth, a worth which society seems increasingly unable to quantify in its new currencies. Night, by comparison, seems cool and revitalizing, a refreshing breath of solitude and guiltless thoughts. They say that the night breeds sin, and that in the human mind night subconsciously symbolizes death - yet for me it's always seemed so comforting and alive. It breeds within me more hope than the rising sun ever could.