“Rise and Shine”, who said that? Whoever did say that couldn’t seriously apply that to me. That was the Sun’s job, not mine. I have always been a creature of the night.
I find the darkness far more satisfying than the bright garish day. No, the Sun is that mean revealer, the teller of truth, that sneak that shows your pale self and all its secrets to the world.
My world is beautiful, it is mysterious, and it is full of untold stories, mysteries perhaps that are not meant to be solved. One of the worst things in life, about man that is that he is always anxious to solve mysteries. Why? Life’s mysteries are beautiful, so beautiful in fact they should be cherished, garnered, preserved and adored. What are the use of facts that when revealed show ugliness and deceit and cruelty and pain and loss and the absence of love.
Love is the most beautiful thing in the world, not money, not possessions, not winning. What do you love, you may ask? I love the night, I love the night creatures that watch me as I pass, I love the wind in the dark pine forest, I love the sound of the sea lapping at the shore in darkness not cognisant of time but everlasting, trustworthy in it’s steadfastness but angry and stormy in it’s rage. Have you stood by the shore and heard the sea’s growl on a stormy night it is as though all the beasts of hell are straining at their leashes? To me it is a comforting sound.
I do not like the Moon much either, what a spoiler of beauty is she. Vanity thy name is Moon. How much better it is to look at the night sky without the Moon’s interference. Go look at the skies on a clear night away from the city’s glare and there will be a wonderland, a cornucopia of delights. No wonder those tiny dots of light were ascribed names of gods and monsters that moved across their world, loving and fighting and hiding and transforming in a picture show of unearthly spectacle.
One day you may see me, pale faced, wandering the streets, the alleys, talking to the trees, nodding at the owls, and shushing the cats as they scrabble in the waste bins. Even if I am not there, I was once. And now you may ask where are you now? I will be in that rustle in the leaves, in the creak of a door, the sigh of the wind or even the pale twinkle of that star up there. No, not shining I leave that to others.