Editor’s Note: This piece was submitted by a contributing writer and does not represent the views of CURE Media Group. At night edges blur. Things that are clear in the light of day change in the shadows of night. Trees that leaf up joyously into the blue of sky become twisted in the black of night. Thoughts of light and hope become clouded with darkness and doubt. Everything changes at night.
It’s hard to see the perimeter at night. Things seep over the edge and ooze under the door. Things reshape into things we don’t recognize. Sounds change and come closer. At night sounds have no melody; at night there is no harmony. At night it’s an irregular series of minor thirds and diminished sevenths.
There are days in which nothing seems to go right. Sometimes it’s just a twinge here or a little pain there. New spots show themselves. Meaningful or not? Phantom or real?
There have been days when hope and promise take flight into the bluest of skies. There have been days when our hopes and wishes have brushed the sun. Meaningful or not? Phantom or real?
But just as we start to feel the magic of the sun, day fades into night and the magic is put away again. At night the playing field shifts and flips as the world spins its way. And edges blur. On some nights, a sea of stars comforts us. On some nights a lone red star stands sentinel. Yet on some nights – no matter how long and far we gaze -- there are no stars. And it’s on those nights – those darkest and loneliest nights– that the mind seeks the edge. Many things no longer surprise us.
In the light of day, we see the edges. Sometimes they’re jagged, but at least we can see and touch them. There’s comfort in that. But at night we just might step off one of the edges and not even know it because the edges blur. Things stay hidden, lie in wait, throb then fade, only to throb again. Minor thirds sound.
At night nothing has a name. Whose world is it? Our bodies have been pushed past the point of exhaustion. At night, with our guard down, our subconscious opens and allows a host of things to flood in. At night our minds prove to be poor filters of good and bad. At night it all floods in, sometimes in dribbles, but sometimes in waves.
In the depth of the night we confront nightmares. They dip and weave and fade and brighten. Their only goal seems to be keeping us off balance. Too often they succeed.
At night things shift and change. Edges blur. Minor thirds ping and pang. Phantom or real?
It’s 4 a.m. There are shadows inside and out. As I think these things, as I write these things, I wonder not a wit about the things that come my way in the ink of night. I wonder, instead, what comes for my wife. I wonder what it is that she feels. I wonder how she makes it through the night. For at night edges blur. But there’s one other thing I know. I know that evil moves under the cover of darkness, but so does love. I know that like a missile, our red border collie seeks out my wife. The dog gets into her bed burrows under the covers and entangles herself into my wife’s arms. Their noses touch, and their hearts beat as one.