Because it rhymes. And everyone knows that rhymes is truths.
Also, they mostly come out at night, mostly.
Also. It’s when the stars might be out (and they came from the stars, I saw them) and the moon is in charge. It’s a time when things are poetic and open minded. And secret and pretty.
It’s darker. Dark is more interesting, right? That’s why clever people watch sad films and Lou Reed dresses in black, right?
Okay. Let’s try and engage a little.
I function better at night. If I didn’t love the sunshine and have scaredy cat mainstream jobs, I’d probably end up nocturnal.
The sunshine brings with it a load of baggage sometimes. A sense of guilt about not being out there living it up. I mean. Living it up in the sunshine is great. It makes me happy and not claustrophobic and sad or agoraphobic or anything.
But the night, the night is cosy and warm and hidden. You can wander in the sharp air of the night (the air is always more sharp). You can wander barren streets.
Or you can pretend you’re by a log fire, or if you’re lucky, actually be by a log fire. The possibilities are endless.
It doesn’t matter. The night is all about that sparkly quilt in the sky. The lozenge of love, floating fat and bright through space. It’s about looking up and feeling small. Or looking out and feeling warm.
It’s when the moonlight glows in people’s eyes and you fall in love.
The night is when the sun can’t see you. The sun brings us life, obviously, but the moon gives us some time to ourselves.
I think I’m addicted to the night. Even as I get nervous walking through the city, and paranoid about the strangers I see (strangers are scarier in the night, this is one down side) I still feel like I’m breathing the air differently. Looking at the world differently. The light cast by moonshine is totally different. Even in the city, street lamps have a certain glow, like a patient etherised upon a table.
The night makes me like poetry.
The night has more poetry in it. Sunshine is about visual media. Paint and colour and light and so forth. Night is about whispers and rhymes and chatter and words.
Next time you’re cold of an evening, read this to yourself, or even better, to someone else.
Makes you feel cosy and wistful, right?
It certainly does something.
I think that’s what night is about. It’s a time for thinking and being cosy.
And ideally cuddling, but that’s possibly another story.
Illustration by Maria.