By Loryn (2008)
In the middle of the night
when all is at its rest,
with eyes closed and consciousness fled,
float without a sound,
carefully, slowly, open the door,
and slip into the night.
Moon shine, night shine,
silver and the black.
The night is soundless, serene, and still;
graced by the light of the moon,
healed by the touch of the wind.
The only ones who see me here
are the celestial stars themselves,
our secret forever hidden
in the sky where they hang.
And blessed night is
my gentle protector;
I am light years from fear.
The night is my lover,
and I am his.
I have always appreciated nighttime so much more than daytime. Don’t get me wrong, I love the sun and I adore stretching out on the grass, soaking up its rays, but nighttime is so much more soothing to me, and, as this poem shows, always has been. I think best in the night, I’m more creative, I have been known to speed-clean my room at midnight so obviously I have more motivation and more energy, and it’s just generally a more relaxing time of day to be awake.
Recently, however, I have been cursed with an overabundance of daytime. The big issue here is that I found myself liking it. Over the past few weeks, seven AM has become one of my most favorite times of day, and on the weekends I miss it if I sleep through it. Which, needless to say, presents a problem, because I also desperately miss two in the morning. If my only sleep could be a few hours right after lunch, I would take that in a heartbeat, because, coincidentally, two in the afternoon is one of my least favorite hours of the day.
I’ve never completely understood why I enjoy the early hours of the night (and now the early hours of the morning) so much more than any other time of day, but a recent conversation with my mom has elucidated the mystery: it’s uncharted time. Now I see that my enjoyment of the time of day has actually very little to do with the sun or the absence of it, because, in reality, I love both, but rather what is expected of me at different times of day.
From eight in the morning to five in the afternoon, one is expected to be productive, to be out doing something, accomplishing something, getting things done. From five to eleven PM you are expected to have a social life, or to be getting dinner ready, or to be getting to sleep on time. Basically, between eight AM to eleven PM there is too much stress, too many social expectations built up around productivity and accomplishment for me to completely ever enjoy myself. Every night, when the clock strikes 11, something magically changes and it becomes my time. Party time, sleep time, writing time, whatever it may be, it’s mine to decide. There’s something to be said for the morning hours, as well. If one awakens long before their day has to begin, they also have the same freedoms: to read, to exercise (or practice yoga, like I would), or to leisurely enjoy their morning cup of coffee. I guess everyone has a favorite time for “me time.” My dad’s special time is in the morning, and my mom’s is at night. I suppose, eventually, I’ll have to choose or else suffer in the professional world, but for now I’ll get what I can of both. Silence is so rare these days, I have to get it where I can.