Nothing much has changed about this space in time. It ticks past every night... not too slow, not too fast.
*And at last, vivid imagery seems to be the case, so here goes nothing.
If not for faulty ice machines, the silence of my Midnight house would go uninterupted. You can almost feel the frozen chunks clunking into the freezer's plastic reciprocal, somehow not waking a single soul. The hummm of our air conditioner circulates tiny particles of loosely fitted space as the shadows of dainty ceiling fans dance along the moving walls. Glowing light bounces through every foggy mirror as our computer recuperates from an exhausting day of human interaction. Time is standing still. And these moments seem all too similar as I listen to my house preapare for the early dawn.
You see, Midnight is a funny time. All the hours feel the same during this odd space between night and day. Time meshes and moments run together- That's why memories are so easily forgotten. Please don't let it drive you mad.
Sometimes it makes me feel as if I am a part of something special, something secret- Some ritual of sacred beauty that has been passed down through generations of Midnight Writers not unlike myself. I'm almost giddy with excitement.
I have found a certain pleasure comes from writing during this funny time, knowing I can accomplish *anything* while others lay semi-unconscious in their nicely folded sheets. As I toil away into the dark, molding my precious knack for the fine art of night writing, I seem to find myself. And I wonder,"why now?" as my eyes are slowly opened. It is almost better to call it soul searching- something I also find much better to do deep in the night.
I let the minutes tick by, I let my brain reassemble.
Find comfort knowing I am here, writing lonely as the dark hours pass on-
And may all Midnight Writers everywhere prosper until the morning dawn...
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