eyes like flashlights.

inspiration surrounds you, open your eyes...

Saturday, February 24, 2007

In These Late Hours.

There is an almost magical transition that occurs every single day here in New York. It is an event that persists as a reliable constant, and generously adorns her worthy denizens with comfort and tranquility. It is one of the few things that we can rely on, in this world of uncontrollable providence. This one unifying thread sews together the boxes of your calendar, and irrevocably ties us all close, if we are willing to be held.

Too frequently it is carelessly overlooked despite its purposeful perfection. This thread is of course nothing other than the timely conversion of day into night. This meaningful exchange awaits appreciation, visible only to live hearts and eyes wide like flashlights. Every single day in dependable orthodoxy and calculated precision, the day succumbs to darkness and likewise the same acquiescent day ironically cleaves the night with day break.

On this particular day, I spent many moments in noisy contemplation over this outwardly serendipitous barter. Listening to the conversations between this ink in my ballpoint pen and paper, deciphering the profound distance between my fingertips and these lettered keys. Indulge me for this moment, in my personification of the day, and her night. The many layered miracle of this alteration is as much about the brightness of the sun as it is about the dimness of night. It is so much about the thin filamentous dawn that exchanges her robe for the heavy armor of evening. It is with sublime elegance, yet mechanical veracity that the day agrees to alternate with night. The day was like a tangible quality that silently assumed an existence of her own that must not be adulterated with reality. A day is not a thing to be seen, but felt.

So feel.

She hovers over us, consuming all admiration, while we plan our schedules over her. No matter how radiant the day, full of action and possibility, she would subtly fade into the landscape if not for her night existing to distinguish her. Like the deep blanket blackness that drapes above us, allowing only the sharp pointillist stars to pierce through, the day is rendered outstanding by the night.

This dynamic metamorphosis surrounds us, unobtrusively. It is a quiet understanding that leaves our eyes callously unaware of the transfer altogether. Surely there would be nothing to distinguish the day without her matching night to set her alight. The essence of her splendor is revealed in these late hours, when the night covers her celebrity. He covers her out of love and mercy for a short period so that she may emerge and collect appreciations. She indulges in the episode, knowing that it is because of her brief capture that they may be aware. A day is just another day without her night defining it as such.

In these late hours she nestles into the night taking comfort in his overwhelming presence, because for certain it is in these late hours…

…that she’s made bright.