The Night.

Starry night


Tonight’s one of those nights where the compartments of my mind are filled with reverie. The scent of days, women, and nights past fill my senses like a ballroom filled with a thousand faces – and you recognise each one of them as they soften into an impressionist painting.

Branching out with leaves for finger tips, it strokes and stokes the flames of memories past. The rhythm of the night does not wane and sings a different tune to all who care to listen. Purveying secrets, trysts, and cries for companionship, the Night cares not for its audience, it is merely passing by.

There are shadows in the corners of the many rooms in my head that come alive at this time. The psychedelic ghosts of summers past. The astonishing comprehension that manifests itself on a fact when that perfect tune is played. When the notes of the piano strike a chord so deep that the tears well up in your eyes not because of any particular emotion, but only because of the daunting realisation that someone somewhere – a million miles away – wrote and played a tune that resonated with you so deep, and brought to life everything inside of you.

Because of the connection you feel with a stranger who has, not out of compassion, but out of the very thoughts in his head scribed a piece and recorded it and shared it with the world, and that world at this time happened to be you. It’s not the mere emotion that is transcribed into music, it is the multitudes of stories that come with it.

I’m on a couch in a dimly lit room. The curtains are black and the air is thick and stuffy. The clock on the wall ticks in the background but I can’t hear it, I can’t acknowledge its presence.

Stella by Kashiwa Daisuke is in its first movement. Anton Stoyanov, my comrade at arms, lies across the room on his armchair. Both of us stare into the open blankness of space. For an interval of 30 minutes, as the song dies and implodes unto itself, I wipe the tears from my eyes and observe him. He nods his head in understanding.

All within the confines of the Night. There’s little that can be said to truly capture it essence. Often described as a dark mistress who whips her blackened cloak across the sky, it is nothing but a time frame. A time frame in which to construct a memory. And ¬†hopefully that memory will last you a life time, essentially, forever.

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