The Dark is Brighter

I knew no person who was fond of my habit of staying awake past the ordinary time of rest.  I wouldn’t even call it a habit aside from its cyclical occurrence.  It was nothing, despite the protests of those who claimed to care, that I hoped to discontinue, nor did it ensue within a defined pattern.  Every night was unlike the last and magical for this very reason.  There was no telling what would escape from my mind into the patient air, awaiting to be satisfied with reverie and reflection.

This air was contained in a small room and encircled my bed and laboring mind.  I never felt restrained by it, though -- quite the contrary.  There was some enchanted quality about this dim range that enthused my thoughts and extracted me from common struggle.  I never seemed to find chance to worry over deadlines or demands in between the hours of activity.  At midnight and the early morning succeeding, it was just me, my mind, and the brightest of blacks, the most fulfilling of negative space.

I liked to think I was special -- I suppose everyone did at some period -- and that my ideas and philosophies were distinct from all others.  Assured of each individual’s inimitability, I believed something of another sort, that my brain and its contents were of a new science.  The people in my life didn’t value what I saw as significance.  This was sufficient for me to determine where the line was drawn between me and the rest of the world.

The hours universally booked for sleep I felt were reserved for my own solitude and discretion of scrutiny.  These strung moments of internal consumption were without consequence or interruption.  There was no one to fracture the contemplative silence or question my pursuits or relay clues of life in daylight.  Perhaps I felt so much more compatible with the night because it was the earth’s natural state.  After all, without the coincidence that is the sun, wouldn’t our planet rest in darkness?

Light wasn’t natural.

Author's Note

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