Just some philosophical shizz i started writing

Many people love the night. Walking down a moonlit road in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the night and feeling the tranquillity that can only come when the busy people running around all day have finally gone home, and the roads are empty, the only people you see being those just like yourself or others going home themselves. Yet for some people, this isn’t what a walk at night feels like. I’m one of those people. For me, a walk in the darkness is the opposite. The moonlight gives everything an eerie shimmer, which for some people could be beautiful, but for myself, just ominous. The silence is disturbing, the calm before a storm, all you can hear is footsteps coming closer and closer, closer and closer; your heart is in your chest, beating, beating, and your breaths, haggard and in themselves as disturbing as the footsteps themselves. Then just as the footsteps get closer and closer, they begin to move away. And suddenly are gone. And with the decidedly anticlimax sounds of the footsteps fading away comes a sense of relief that cures the fear for a moment. And you’re left wondering. What all the fuss was about. Why am I scared of footsteps? It’s only going to be someone making their way back to the safety of their home. If anything those footsteps help to show you aren’t alone out there. And why be scared of the moon? If it wasn’t for the moon you’d see so much less, and looking from another’s eyes the shimmer is beautiful, ethereal, and magical. And shadows. What is it about a shadow that makes us so afraid? I mean, you know it’s just a jumper making the shadow, yet still our brain twists that simple bit of darkness into something out to get us. It makes you wonder, why does my imagination do this to me? It’s just a coat, I can see the coat, yet my mind interprets that coat’s shadow as a twisted monster. Does our own imagination hate us that much? To give us a spectrum of infinite beauty in the sunlight of a summer’s day to such horror when the sun goes down? And it makes you realise. It’s my fault that I perceive it that way. It’s just a coat. And I’m not afraid of it anymore.

But as I say “the safety of your own home” you begin to think. My house is a bungalow, atop a quiet suburban road on a hill. In the day it’s beautiful, but in the night the tranquillity becomes a little bit TOO silent. The creaking of the wind in a house, the echoing of distant fireworks become monsters trying to get into your house to get you, tapping on the window, ready to jump through and grab your terrified self. The lack of street lights can be soothing, yet at times like these makes you wonder why you were ever glad they were gone. The darkness, seeping in now to your room, ready to turn off your single lamp and leave you defenceless. But that’s just stupid. Darkness can’t turn off lights like that. But again, there’s your brain again! Twisting stray thoughts into stories of death and destruction. It’s like Inception tells us. The worst parasite is an idea. A single thought can come back at you a million times, can develop into twisting the way you see things like the night. Changing your view of reality. A realm of “what if”, “it could”, “what’s that”, and “but is it”, that once opened can only be closed one way. By forcing it shut. And by doing that you realise things. For example, I just realised that my scary little house on the silent hill has an absolutely breathtaking view. At night, the whole town centre is lit up below me, a shimmering expanse that has made me realise. Dark isn't that bad.


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