The night.
Silently walks in,
Like an intriguing
stranger, whose face you never get to see.
As he sits and
watches you,
The dam that held
back thoughts is pulled away.
And so they flow,
sometimes like a gentle pitter-patter of rain,
Other times with
the ferocity of a hungry lion.
Anger, pain,
sadness, words, memories, unending analyses, songs,
A jukebox, that
plays all records together.
Imagine the noise,
Inside your head,
In the silence of
the night.
But it is now that
thoughts are lucid.
You realise
realities that were invisible before.
All day, you file
away moments, feelings, associations - in a folder,
And when a tired
world sleeps,
The folder flings
open, bursting to reveal itself,
Demanding
reflection.
If only the day was
just as silent and still.
You would sail
through life with clarity,
About what you
desire and what you don’t,
About where you
stand and where you don’t,
About who you are
and who you are not.
And when you
awaken, the night reverberates in your bones,
Like the tingling
of a secret rendezvous.
There’s a numbness,
as you press the ‘play’ button of the day,
Working hard to
remember the wisdom of the night,
So as to connect it
to what unfolds ahead.
Nobody knows.
It is your secret,
your little luxury.
You can snuggle
into the vast black blanket and fall apart,
And stay that way,
till you glue the pieces together in the morning.
The dark stranger
will not judge you.
After all, he holds
the sighs and tears of the world.
He will look at you
kindly,
And touch you with
sleep,
Soft, painless and
healing.
Black. Illuminated
forever by the moon and the perpetual stars.
This night is your
friend.
He never shows you
his face, but you can talk to him for hours.
He wants nothing,
he takes nothing.
A true friend.
A true friend.
