There’s a certain beauty in the night-time that the day can’t ever commit to. The day’s happenings all melt in the sky, in hues of brooding pinks, cobalt blues, and comforting blankets of blacks.

Some nights, I lay awake in awe of the silence. The deception of peace. I appreciate it nonetheless.
Some nights, I lay awake trying to block out the awful silence drilling in my head. I wrap myself against myself, like a fragile child and wait for the winds to sing a lullaby to me. I appreciate it then, too.
Some nights, I speak to God. The reception seems clearer, then.
Some nights, I break down with the sheer exhaustion of the world and it’s heavy possibilities.
Some nights, I step on to my balcony, beckon the night to me, inhale deeply and ask, “how are you, tonight?”

The night always seems more honest than the day. It is harder to hide from yourself at night. All your shields break down, and you become the most human version of yourself. Dangerously authentic. Still, the night is never judgmental.

Most nights, I see the sky change. Washing away the dark, consumed with the slow-burning fire of a new day. Tell it, “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow, old friend.”



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