A Dream of Midnight

A Recollection of Long Walks and Forgotten Cafe’s

I've always thought that the night is much more alive and vibrant than the day. And yes, I am paraphrasing from Vincent Van Gogh — but it doesn't make it any less true. For the past few days, weeks, and months, the night has welcomed me time and time again. Whether I’m coming home from school, out with friends, or just lonely — it has proved to me that the night is a time of wonders. A time when the greatest and most terrifying crevices of humanity come out, painting the whitewashed walls illuminated by the warm, orange glow of the streetlights. The night in the city, the hustle and bustle of clubs and bars, the casual wanderer, and bound vagabonds have been my home for these past few months. If home was truly where the heart is, then I’ve found it in the comfort of strangers and late night café’s. The city lights have become my stars, and the buildings my constellations.

I’ve been wandering the streets quite often now, and many times I just seem to drift idly by from alley to alley, street to street, crossroads, drink after drink, endlessly until I eventually find my way home. I just idly sit in my favorite café, listening to the live acoustics, merely spectating on the grandeur of the wild, untamed landscape that is the night. I am vexed, jaded — directionless — just like a number of its participants. In a many ways, I have used the night to escape from the cruel realities that face me in the coming of dawn.

In the day, I am paralyzed. Bound by my mistakes and bitter regrets, I am gagged — unable to truly speak until it ends. During the day, everything feels too real — that everything I do while the sun shines on will inevitably affect my future. Every word written or unwritten, every thought said or unsaid, every gesture done or avoided — all of it, it all feels too damn real. The realities of life crushing my bones, the pressure of the world on every inch of my body — it proves fatal to my sanity. The night is looser, sleazier, more promising — far, far better than the day.

But I cannot keep escaping to the night, my life lies in the day too. And as of the moment, I’ve been struggling to balance the two — I miss the excitement of a new day. I miss morning suns, the cold 6 A.M. breeze, the sound of everyone in my lonely corner of the world coming alive — I miss being hopeful, optimistic for the future.

I’ve been wandering, using the intoxication of the night to salve the pain of my life falling apart around me. I’ve been wandering, waiting for my muse, waiting for hope to come and swoop me off my feet again, waiting for inspiration, waiting until my life has structure again. I can no longer wait, what once was, is no longer — I must move forward. As surely as the night turns to day and the day to night, the world spins madly on — and I must move with it.

But I will not stop wandering the night, the glitz and the glamour, its lucid dreams and sleepy consciousness — it amazes me. No, my resolve is simply to spark my love for the day once again. And hopefully, the day will be as vibrant and amazing as the night. I sign off in the middle of this uphill battle, a game of balance in which none must win. The world is as colorful as we make of it, whether it’s the night or day — let’s enjoy every damned second of it.