The Still Of The Night

I love the night. Everything seems calmer. Quiet. Gentler.

I don't remember a time when I was afraid of the dark.

Not as a child. Not when I lived on my own. Not ever.

It's almost as though expectations cease to exist when the witching hour passes. I have no goals. No dreams and aspirations. For a few hours, when the moon hangs suspended in the sky and the stars map the heavens, I simply am.

There is no why or how or when or who. I don't need to explain who I am or defend myself to others. I don't have to make myself presentable. I don't have to force a smile. I don't have to hide my tears. All I have to do is breathe.

The past falls away. The future isn't a worry. It's all present. The here. The now.

The peak hours of the night are always the best, when it feels like you are the only soul awake. All the windows of every house are without light. No one is shouting. No one is crying. No one is complaining. Children are tucked away safely in bed. No cars on the streets.

In those hours of nothingness, I feel the most fulfilled. My heart is lighter. My back doesn't hurt. My brain stops racing to find answers to questions I don't want to ask.

In these hours I imagine this is what it would be like after the Apocalypse. Just nothing. And the thought isn't frightening because nothing is scary in these moments. There are no fears or troubles or threats. There are no monsters or demons. For humankind is sleeping. And I am alone.

As the comforting hush settles on the city, I am no longer disappointed. I am no longer broody or moody. I am no longer annoyed at the things I cannot change. Or saddened by the things I could have changed but failed to.

For these moments, the world stands still. Just for me.

And I stand still for the world.