the night is a sonata

Night doesn’t fall. Night rises.

Not merely descends to repose, but a melodic phrase. How could it? If the stars themselves are a staccato of notes—the constellations, a legato.

From the melancholic silence, a splendor of harmonies unfold—calm at first, testing the waters, waiting for the right moment to progress into exposition. It cradles you in its waves, washing the dissonance away.

Clearing the noise of the neverending bicker at the breakfast table, the shots of insult, the lies of an egoist, of all deafening sounds. The night paints a veil of calmness, blue meeting blue in darker shades, almost black.

The measures are filled with rests, waiting for a piece about to begin—waiting for me to fill in the spaces with my own notes. With my own voice.

I could feel in my mind all the crescendos and decrescendos springing into life, long suppressed by the daily bustle. I could whisper my secrets into the wind, in hope that it will send them up to the sky and coffin them within the clouds. Perhaps, it could whisper back: This will all come to pass. Like the end of an overused pop song.

Perhaps the stars could keep my thoughts and play them in different keys to remind me not to forget the lines. And when I long to forget, perhaps they could stay quiet and cast the notes farther into the heavens where I could not reach.

I drift off to another musing, but in my wandering, I thought of how similar we are to stars—scattered, distanced. Are they longing for harmony too? In this night, with more warmth than morn. Whereas the sun is loud, dissonant, taking up space in every corner, uncaring, all out fortissimo.

The vast horizon casts a peaceful hue as I savor all of the lines. Word by word, note by note, I fill in the measures of my incomplete sonata. Tomorrow, I wish to let the dark sky hear it with me.

How could I not yearn for the night? All the sun ever does is glare.