The sky glitters and gleams, swirls and streams through stars and their accompanying luminescence in languid flux. It peeks through the darkened, wafting clouds and stirs through the colossal shadows cast by the celestial bodies, moving at a pace of its own, entrancing and soothing. It's easy to forget yourself then, to let your troubles seep into the dark.
It's sort of funny. Somehow, when I was growing up, I'd been conned into thinking that nightmarish occurrences could only take place under the cover of darkness, eerily lit up by scarce stars and the looming, glowing moon. It's surprising that they've gotten it all wrong, really. With daylight comes noise, cluster, all blistering light and chaos, but with night comes a soothing quiet, a calming slow of movement, and an almost meditative darkness. With night comes my best friend.
The dead of night is when I feel closest to him. When I lie down and watch the cosmos, brilliant and breathtaking, I think I can feel the clouds stirring in my head. I think I can faintly feel the warmth of the stars on my fingertips. I think I can hear the whispers of meteors, and the moon's hushed lullaby. I think I can feel the embrace of the galaxy. And I think I feel fine.