I have to ask myself, "Self, why are you still awake?"
To which I reply, "I was inspired by the soft darkness and the gentle sounds of summer night."
As someone who is utterly, undeniably afraid of the dark, I see a strange irony in this. It's a sick thrill of mine to stand on the back porch (in my nice, safe neighborhood) and see how long I can stay out in the dark before my heart starts racing and I flee to the safey of my brightly-lit kitchen. All of my senses remain on edge, and my mind races to keep up with my heartbeat. (therearemonstersinthetodashdarkness) Though I suppose there is something to be said about facing one's fears, I can never bring myself to turn around and look through the glass of the door I just fled through, for I fear of what might be looking back at me. It must surely be some gruesome spector, or more likely, a more subtle incarnation of my fear-a simple shadow, slightly darker than the rest, radiating malevolence and hunger. My own imagination turns against me in the darkness. I must battle with myself to conquer the swell of terror and dread that grows inside me as I stand rooted in the middle of my kitchen. The sounds of night creep in: the croaking of frogs, the songs of cicadas and crickets, and the wind moving softly through the closely entertwined branches of the oak trees. Surely such gentle, soft noises couldn't hide such a horror as I imagined. I breathe deeply and feel my muscles begin to loosen one at a time, as the warmth and familiarity of my surroundings pulls me back to safety. Still, I do not look out the window. I will never trust the darkness, it seems. It may inspire me, thrill me, even excite me, but I will never find sanctuary in the shadows.
To which I reply, "I was inspired by the soft darkness and the gentle sounds of summer night."
As someone who is utterly, undeniably afraid of the dark, I see a strange irony in this. It's a sick thrill of mine to stand on the back porch (in my nice, safe neighborhood) and see how long I can stay out in the dark before my heart starts racing and I flee to the safey of my brightly-lit kitchen. All of my senses remain on edge, and my mind races to keep up with my heartbeat. (therearemonstersinthetodashdarkness) Though I suppose there is something to be said about facing one's fears, I can never bring myself to turn around and look through the glass of the door I just fled through, for I fear of what might be looking back at me. It must surely be some gruesome spector, or more likely, a more subtle incarnation of my fear-a simple shadow, slightly darker than the rest, radiating malevolence and hunger. My own imagination turns against me in the darkness. I must battle with myself to conquer the swell of terror and dread that grows inside me as I stand rooted in the middle of my kitchen. The sounds of night creep in: the croaking of frogs, the songs of cicadas and crickets, and the wind moving softly through the closely entertwined branches of the oak trees. Surely such gentle, soft noises couldn't hide such a horror as I imagined. I breathe deeply and feel my muscles begin to loosen one at a time, as the warmth and familiarity of my surroundings pulls me back to safety. Still, I do not look out the window. I will never trust the darkness, it seems. It may inspire me, thrill me, even excite me, but I will never find sanctuary in the shadows.
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