I prefer the dark hours. At least, for creative endeavours. Reading. Manifestation of affection. I won’t deny, wrapped in a lovely soft and perfumed blanket when the dusk and twilight emerge in gentle beam, is splendid too. For staring nowhere out as to retain everywhere in. For visceral tangibility. For immersing yourself in unreeling the folds of your cerebral loops and deciphering the splotches of thunder, amour and torment that define your soul’s palette. Or others’. But it pales considerably when compared with bleeding in those same activities at nighttime.
Because beyond the mystery-imbued atmosphere, the electric tranquility of your secluded nest or the sonorous vibration of your partying spots, beyond all that sweet vulnerability we all unwillingly bare at drowsy hours, there is something more. A sort of dense yet stupefyingly ethereal sense of self-control and composure. And you feel not enlighten, but enliven and capable of diving into realms that test your existential resistance and grasp. Of another’s angels, demons and simpletons. Or yours.
Spaces weaved solely by imaginative gossamer trickled out of preoccupied synapses or by violent longing trembled in fits of clinging, body-on-body possessions…acquire a magical halo at nighttime. Untouchable in daylight experiments. Sublime nimbus whose cathartic
and often radioactive, but so irresistibly unforgettable! effect of burnt~with~lasting~quality time can only ooze in encompassing darkness. Punctuated or not with timorous yet deceivingly unnatural rays of light. And with heartbeat-like time droplets.