Midnight Prances and the Smoke that Dances

Every time a streetlight glows, the legends of the night grow.

I've always felt that the night held some curious danger that the day could never muster. It's not that I have something against the day. The day has just always been the time to work, the time to survive, the time to take advantage of our skills. The night is always a vacation. Sometimes 6 hours is just enough.

I think of every night as a vacation. Not in the sense of buffet eating, picture taking, and mini-golfing. The idea of a vacation as a journey to something unusual. I might drink often, but each time something hits me. If I'm lucky, I'll hear a some piece of unprocessed truth. I hear nuggets of truth all the time on a personal level, but I'm speaking of a different truth: a collective truth.

I believe in a collective consciousness. We know the same stories and feel the same feelings. We dream of the heroes we wish we could be and the damsels in distress. There is a truth that combines us. Death, Sorrow, Lust, and Hope are all facets of this communal truth. They are forces we can't ignore, no matter how many times you play "Not Fade Away" or just try to fade away. Out of this collective consciousness we learn how to communicate and live on a different level. Personal truth is important, but collective truth is also apart of us. Sometimes the two clash: "I am Intelligent" vs. "Your IQ score was 100" ; "I am beautiful" vs. "You are twenty pounds overweight".

I'm not telling you to choose between the others. The point is to recognize both and work your way around them. Completely ignoring the thoughts/opinions of others is considered irrational and abnormal (the autism spectrum is a great example of this). It's in our best interests to recognize both personal and communal truths.

Back to the Night:

The day holds no mysteries. The inherent risk of the night forces all my wild seeds to germinate. The sound of music in the distances. The glow of neon reflected in her eyes. The smell of alcohol and car exhaust. The first signs of fog floating from sewer lids. The signs on the stores flash "closed" but the roads are wide open. The bus lines stop running, but the roads never end. There is skin that the sun never touches. There are dresses the wind never brushes. There are infinite chances and ill-advised advances. When the day is over, I hope for midnight prances and the smoke that dances.