I’ve always loved the deepest dark; dark rooms, houses, and especially unfathomably dark skies that blot out confirmations of daily banality like cars and yards and driveways. It appeals to me like most instincts do—naturally, and although I’m sure there’s a more prosaic reason, I often feel that it’s because it indulges my tendency toward silence and introspection. At night, life relaxes into routined calm, and the parts that aren’t calm are hidden in the surrounding inky depths, making for easy ignorance. There are no distractions when your eyes can’t focus on shapes or colors. All that’s left is what you imagine there to be.
This morning was full of bulbous, moody clouds and it was still dark when I got to work. I was standing there thinking about how lovely the embrace of rain and dark gray is when my co-worker switched on all the lights. The artificial bulbs felt like an affront on some need for a natural progression toward light that the sky hadn’t given clearance for yet. An extra few hours of misplaced night is always welcomed, and I just wonder if people would be more content, or feel more balanced, if they were allowed to wake up when the sun wanted them to.
Waking up early has its own appeal, and I don’t doubt that having enthusiasm for a new day has it’s benefits. Morning is a good time to search for something nestled in yourself that needs finding again, but perhaps its a kind of introspection with a drop more enthusiasm built in. The morning bird clearly finds comfort in preparation—searching for that opportunistic worm, while most night owls prefer dwelling on the catch. In the end they both fly, but for now, all my devotion goes to my dark love, night.