So alluring, the way the dark spreads itself across a sea of shining stars and makes us forget the infinities we haven’t seen. I question myself and I think about how the starlight we see is a gift from centuries ago. I’m alive in the dark. I’m lethargic in the light. And yet the darkest corners of my imagination are the places I dread the most.
I’m alone in the light. I’m a force in the dark. My wrists tremble at the thought of another night of telling stories with ambiguous intent and metaphors that strike my knees - bow to the dark - and yet I’m the only fool who reads my words.
The gift of the dark is the great balance of life; when time is stuck in one end of the dichotomy, these little spots of grey pour out over the blue in my eyes.
And as the colors are muffled like the road workers covering up an artist’s graffiti, I begin to understand why there’s two sides to a coin.
I’m alive in the dark, tired in the light, and the shadows of the night have become my favorite audience.