Sometimes, when I can’t
sleep, I go out onto the roof. Its really nice there, especially when there are
no clouds, and the moon is out. That’s where I am now. The night air is cool
and soft, clouds travel in wispy bands across the dark plush of the sky, where
stars twinkle few and far between like the sparks Samantha always goes on
about. You can see the buildings and lights of Boston against the sky,
silhouetted and stark, calm in the crushing velvet of the night. Our street is
quiet, and I don’t see anybody. The front lawn of the house is bathed in
darkness, waves of it lapping against the house like the sea. Fish of doubts
and dreams swim in the uncertain ocean, biting at minds and tugging on lines.
When I’m up here, I like to play my guitar, play sad, soft songs that echo and vibrate, here among
the stars. Its peaceful here, no questions, no prying, no noise. Only me and my
music and my thoughts. Sometimes I dance, twirling and leaping in the spotlight
of the moon, a hundred times brighter and better then stage lights. The motion
of the night air across my face and body is like soothing words and hands, like
a comforting murmur that tells me I am not alone. Like maybe the Goddess of the
moon herself is smiling down at me. But I have to be careful, or else I’ll fall.
I like the night. I
like the gentle haze around the streetlamps when it rains, like an Angels halo,
or a portal to another world. The air is thicker at night, fuller. Stocked with
the memories and tears of hundreds of years, hundreds of stares at the moon,
hundreds of wishes made on shooting stars. I close my eyes, and wish.
I’ve always loved
nighttime.
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