Ever wondered why the sky at night is always black? I am not talking about the Earth’s rotation. There’s something so poetic about the sky being black; it’s like you can tell it anything and everything. The night knows all your secrets—those silent tears, the book you accidentally finished in one go, the deep talks you have with your friends, or maybe just yourself. That dark sky accepts you as you are.
It’s strange how naturally we trust that never-ending black horizon, when, since birth, we have been conditioned to associate bad things with black. We’re told to believe that certain colours don’t complement darker skin tones, forced to use foundation 5 shades lighter than our complexion, forced to hate the skin that looks back at you in the mirror. It must have taken a lot of effort to convince the population that dark clothes, black cats, crows, or anything black is a sign of a bad omen. Why is the devil black while the angel is always white?
People say that after dusk it’s the time for paranormal activities. But they forget that Alice went to Wonderland, that Van Gogh painted his most famous paintings, and that Cinderella almost kissed Prince Charming at midnight. For me, nights are like a gift from God, some extra hours to do whatever I like. I can be anyone, and there will be no one to judge me or monitor my aimless endeavours.
During the day, I can be the person I’m expected to be—I’ll attend lectures, hang out with friends, and appreciate nature and art. But at night I’m the artist: a poet, a writer, a painter, a storyteller of stories that won’t reach the ears of my peers. Maybe it’s a waste of time, maybe I shouldn’t spend 30 minutes trying to find the perfect rhyme. But what if that rhyme leads to some epiphany that helps me understand the line between love and insanity? Maybe I’ll be able to crack the code of the afterlife and know for sure whether it exists.
Maybe years later, I’ll find out that I lost all those years of sleep in vain, just to never reach a conclusion or have a solid answer. But at least I’ll have my efforts documented as proof of my yearning to find something worthwhile. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe the purpose of the night isn’t to hand out answers, but to give space to ask questions without fear. To let me wander through my thoughts without the pressure of arriving somewhere.
The night doesn’t promise clarity; it promises companionship. It sits with me while I overthink, while I grieve for people I haven’t lost yet, while I imagine futures that may never exist, while I cry about world issues that are too dense and complicated to be solved by me alone.
The sky stays black and constant, reminding me that not everything in life needs to be bright and illuminated. Some things are meant to exist quietly, like thoughts whispered to the dark or dreams written at 2 a.m. and never shared. And even if the world never sees this version of me—the one who doubts, creates, questions, and hopes, it’s okay. The night has already witnessed it all.
At least I know one thing for sure: the night sky will keep my secrets safe.