my Muse Tonight

sometimes i stare outside my window and write about what's there. it's midnight, so there's nothing.

It is dark outside.

How many ways can I name the dark?

It is a cold comfort, a silent shroud that wraps around everything at once without caring who he or she or it is.

It is a blindfold, taking away my vision but also opening up my other senses to a world that they have never known before: a world of sounds and smells, tastes and textures.

It is a menace that hides cruel things, impossible to see or imagine.

It is a shield, a cloak of invisibility to hide myself in.

It is a canvas on which to paint, though it will not hold the colours added to it: one must paint a swiftly fading picture with light, or scratch stars into the sky.

It is Nyx and Nótt, Ratri, Shalim, and Tezcatlipoca, Breksta, Al-Quam, Kuk, and Erebus, and the Zorya.

It is a thing which is not a thing: without anything to spur my senses.

It is named, and so therefore it is.

The End

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