If you had asked her she would have told you that she was a
day person. The sun made the monster of the ink black less scary and more manageable.
The light gave her a sense of purpose and composure that its successor deprived
her. She would say this safety and assurance was the cause of this preference.
But at night she would come alive. As the sun set and the
last ambered hues were exhausted, her soul would sing, her mind would dance
with ideas and thoughts. She would sit free and dream out loud, after all where
best to hide those questionable visions than in the ebony heavens.
What so transparent just hours before became murky and wild.
She would slip thought convention and obligation and cool her heels in the refreshing
pools of late night anonymity. It was easy to let go when the world is sleep,
it was less complicated when no one can see.
She would dream of love, a love that would wake her from her
slumber, rousing her from the reality she dreamt and would lead her to the
dream she could live out. She let this dream echo in to the distance, filling
the space around her quiet dark night, like shooting stars that lit her world a
flame.
Only visible at night she would breath them in and hold on,
but soon her eyes would tire, and her head hazy, and she would seek a soft
place. She needed her rest, because after all she was a day person.
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