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.