The Night People

There are those who thrive in the day, who relish in the sun, let the rays soak into their skin and feel the warmth seep into their bones. It is the general consensus that every creature who can feel the warmth of the sun must seek it out. But for a very select few, the moon is their one true love. The moon and the night hold very different light than the sun. The moon’s light is cold but beautiful. It attracts a few like minded, who seek her peace. The nightlife, though often synonymous with a culture of fast paced youth and degenerate criminals, holds space for a different kind of meaning to those who live with it, not just in it. The night is a constantly misunderstood being. She is cornered and caged, and forced into a monolith that restricts her.  Those that understand her, often fall victim to her fate. Tied up and forgotten, they are the ones that were told that they do not belong, who’s evolution was abruptly disrupted by a system dedicated solely to the day. But within all struggles, there is a distinct determination that defines them. To be more than the sun, and the day. To be more than the stereotypes assigned to them. Those who revel in the night strive to be more, not a mere puzzle piece in the lattice work of a single colorful scene, but the quieter, softer sort of observers that take all the night has to offer, that the day could never. The night just like the day, has specific rules, a strict sort of order that must be adhered to. Though what kind of order that is no one can decipher. The rules of night are much more obscure than that of the day. The night as different as she is, still holds consequences for those who do not, or cannot abide by her ways. She is cruel, she is kind, she is fickle, she is rigid. Her creations come from fleeting, intoxicated, inspirations. Her affections only extended to those who  feed into them. Her love is made for those who love her. For the individual, the solitary, the infinite. One such individual now sits in the fire escape of his apartment building. Enjoying the view, breathing in the smells and feeling the cool air on tired skin. The day for him is long and arduous, full of dead end jobs, bickering roommates, and well meaning, but overbearing mothers who can't relinquish their hold on a solitary image of a boy clinging to her sleeve as his father's silhouette recedes farther into the distance. He sits facing the alley way, watching couples stumble out of bars, and groups of singles stumble in. One such subject catches his eye, and with scrutinizing detail, he folds the shape of her human form into the 2-dimensional pages of his sketchbook. He catches the curve of her cheek as she turns her shining face into the street light, the hem of a red dress, poking out of her coat.  She like him, gives herself to the night, she searches desperately for that feeling of belonging. For the missing piece, in her life. She, like him, craves the company of those that understand her. She tires of fake smiles, and empty promises. She seeks out authenticity in a world of manufactured simplicity. She is another solitary figure, surrounded by those who seek the companionship of night, but remain wholly to the day. She alone stands resolute against the chaos the night invites, and sees the beauty reflected in its possibility. An old fashioned film camera is slung around her neck. Every now and then a particularly intriguing sentiment crops up on a face that catches her eye, and she must scramble to catch it before it gets lost again in a wild sea of monotony. But as the camera shutters, and the faces meld and collapse together, her exhaustion begins to creep back in. Not the kind from physical exertion, or busy schedules. But the kind from too much monotony. Too much of the same. From masking desires, too not even knowing what desire means. That is why she seeks the night, why he does, why any of them do. To escape that exhaustion and to find feeling once again. An inkling, a feeling, nothing more really, nothing more is needed, to draw two souls together in a moment. A moment is all they are allowed, that is the rule of the night, the day is for love, the night is for silent reflection, no one falls in love at night, they are only allowed glimpses of love to come. The boy in the fire escape watches the girl standing under the streetlight, and during a vulnerable moment, he misses her and snaps a shot of him with her camera. And she, the moment he looks up to find perspective in the subtle way she lets her arm dangle by her side. The night allows them a glance, and that is all. Their eyes meet for a moment before obligation draws them away from one another. Love is not for the night, only the day knows what will become of them. But the night fickle as she is, can't help but to hold favorites. She entertains them, plays with them, pushes and pulls at the tides of fate. She knows only to allow a single moment between them, but who is to tell her how long to stretch that moment, seconds, hours, an entire lifetime exists in a moment. The night allows only a glance, but she winks at dawn, as its rosy leaves stretch and yawn over the horizon. Tiredness creeps into the boy's eyes, as he retreats back from the ledge, he holds the drawing of the girl tightly to his chest as he surrenders himself to dreams. She holds her own memento in the palms of her hands, zooming in on his face to fit neatly into their frame, her thumbs combing gently over his hair. She relaxes herself into the plush leather of the backseat of the taxi. Only the day is for love, but the night holds memories the day could never dream of.