Midnight has been a tack, glued to presence. Veils harrowing, yet still finding their way. Their appearance, mere nothing, guided by strings of white, exhibits the continuum, the vastness that feels as though it may not end. It has taken various forms, seeping through the requiem. The energy, the orb that has lifted many generations to this point. The cold grasp.
What existed as a placement, grounds of becoming prey. The nights were among the minds of men and women alike. Food made them embark, but what vitality and sustained supply do if no morning comes to pursue again? The night embraces the warmth of the soul, like a mother's embrace, yet undead clings to red, orange, and bright white that drains it away. The eyes lose their elasticity throughout the day, but they find rest in the shallow nights, specifically in the dead of night.
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Midnight may not decide anything for me, yet it carries me plainly through the clustered day. The heat of summer, the breeze of winter. The walks in loneliness amid the coming day, no one around. And yet the night grabs me and enforces a truth: I am alone and have been for a while.
Spawned into the day, cranky, humans show their humanity within that span. Midnight embarks on reveries and puts forth notions. I am ecstatic to hear them, far-fetched as they are, for they provide an escape. But I know better than the veils that guide me. Midnight makes the final decision for me.
I may come in many forms, probably another day, for you. If there is a day, there is a night. Both are alike, you and nosferatu. The vitae for them is a means to exist, and the night is how they carry themselves. It says to me, the night, that you are not misguided. I may provide ease of letting it go away, the numbness. What would I be without the day? And for you, what would you be without these endless pursuits?
So sleep.
Midnight Letters Prompt #25: What decision have you left to midnight to decide
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