Nomad Writer

There is an intimacy that comes with the night. When the moon hoists herself high with unabashed flourish amid the glimmer of a star-studded sky. In the hours when the earth sighs soft and nocturnal melodies drift on the whistling wind.

Here, in this room, where the walls are so thin they may not have been there at all. Where everything is so still, the things you would normally overlook are more apparent. Like the breath winding in and out, through your body. Like the snores in the apartment next door, so close, it’s as if you were sharing your neighbor’s bed. Like the whisper of your thoughts, finding clarity within the shadows bobbing and weaving at the edges of your sight — tricking you into seeing things that aren’t there. Or like the sultry sounds of ecstasy from the woman on the second floor. (Or is it the third floor?).

It’s this varied cadence that arouses a sense of familiarity; as if it would be perfectly normal to call out to these strangers and converse about the most trivial things. But the sun washes away such idle ideas, intrusive light pouring in, as the engines of the day sputter and crudely rumble to life. So the mad rush begins and every thought entangles with more important and exhaustive worries. Until the night comes again, soothing the world’s chaotic frenzy.