The night was dark, dark, soundless and surreal. And it sat on the edge of the world, its dark cape engulfing the surroundings, hiding everything but sparks of light, twinkles of blue and yellow and that giant boulder of silver. It did not speak, night did not, for silence was its complany, its sole friend and its everlasting nightmare. Night simply sat, ones here, and then there, moving about with the swish of a coat that wrenched the world out of the pitch blackness, made it see ones more the light of the day, but only as a tease; for night knew it would be back, and it did get back. With the shadows that followed it around, the grey wisps of faint hearted ghosts and the sinewy branches of obscure trees, those leaves that rustled under the moon for the shudder on all things living, those shivers at the edges of the river, the sea and the ocean, the night lived, quietly, in a haven of its own creation, lost to all but itself and it carried out its tasks in this world and others with a flourish unmatched. Night was king.
And night was getting old.
For with each blinking light of the world, it had to strenghten its darkness, had to darken its cape, its cape of despair and night wasnt doing too well. And night could not speak and night could not complain, it simply worked, this endless game of hide and seek, this patchwork of light and darkness that worked its magic in worlds here and beyond. Night was suffering, suffering as time flew by itself, suffering as time danced and swirled in the dimensions inexplicable, laughing, laughing at the torture and the pain, laughing at night, as night weaved a coat harder to pierce, strung threads of colors deeper than black and wished, wished with all its heart that it could speak, that it could explain, that it could seek to comprehend, to the worlds here and beyond that night was for darness, night was for dreams, night was for solitary walks along shorelines of blue, blue and gold, sparkling clear gold and whites that crashed into thousand pieces among those golds.
But night, it could not speak, it could only do what it had been meant to, forever stuck in the destiny that many sought. It knew its purpose and its meaning, it knew its sole reason for being, and night, it answered its calling, but there was little more it could do. With each light that lit up the meadows, each green letter that appeared on blocks of steel and chrome, each unearthly sound that escaped the willies of the glass, night despaired. It fought with the disaster that brewed within and it battled. It raged a war with all that showed and it tried. Tried so hard. Tried with every detail of its being, with every ounce of its power, with every fibre of its cape and yet it could not. Did not complete what it was called upon to do.
And so it cried.
Blood tears.
Ever since, the night sky, the once upon a time deep dark night sky, comes with streaks of red and purple. |
Submission Name: The Night
