For as long as I can remember, I’ve always loved the night. My eyes shine brighter, my mind works sharper and my spirit stirs fully awake with the setting of the sun.
Don’t get me wrong, I like the day too (I’m not Batman or anything who comes out only at night) but I just feel more in my element when the sun goes down and the moon comes out to play.
Maybe being a city girl sets the playground for that — only at night do you get to see the bright shiny lights of urban utopia flicker on and bathe everything in its glitz and glamour. Everywhere and everything gets illuminated with this gilded sheen of manmade lights so even the most mundane of setting immediately looks more alluring to the eyes, heart and soul.
It has occurred to me that maybe I like it so much because it cloaks the harsh imperfections of our realities; that maybe, amidst the neon glow and florescent incandescence, it allows me to pretend ugliness and rottenness do not manifest.
It first struck me when I was in Hong Kong — only when night has fallen and the buildings come alive in white, blue, yellow lights did I feel welcomed. In the revealing daylight, it was rude, heartless and selfish.
I’ve found myself returning to the same sentiments in most places, where the day unmasks tired faces and burdened shoulders, of people dragging along their responsibilities on hot roads burnt up further by the unforgiving sun.
It is my dream to one day visit all the greatest cities of the world and stand basking in their respective night lights. To soak in the bold and bright of New York and Tokyo or fall in love all over again in the soft and romantic of Paris and Milan.
Some people are early birds who draw inspiration from breathtaking sunrises. Me, I awake with the stars, when my worries and concerns for too many things out of my control go to sleep along with the rest of the world, letting my mind finally get to proper work.