Starlit Sky

One in the morning on a Sunday night breeds sensations that can never exist at any other point in a single cycle of the sun and moon. Silence, predominantly, is deafening. Shoes padding along graveled roads, pebbles peppering the ground like they were mimicking the stars in the sky. The soft whispers of frogs croaking, crickets chirping, and cicadas whizzing are a music unheard by the bed-dwellers tucked safely in their sheets inside a darkened house nearby.

During the day, noise permeates the silence like a sword cuts through air, like rain slices through sheets of snow on the ground. Daylight kills creativity for the night-owl and forces it to sleep.

She lay awake at night, staring at the blurred ceiling through the opaqueness of this artificial nocturne, rolling on one side, then the other, over and over again. Darkness stimulates the night-owl’s mind and she is dripping with muse, listening to the ticks of the wall clock and the occasional car whir past her home, the flash of a headlight illuminating the room through her slitted blinds cascading over the windowpane.

In day she is minuscule; at night she is substantial.