As one who has lived a nocturnal existence, as an insomniac and a night auditor, I have spent my fair share of evenings surrounded by thoughts and convictions as my only company. Night is an intimate ritual as it envelopes the human heart. For the weary it provides peace, for the fearful it harbours inescapable horrors, for lovers-liberation. In all of our allusion, have we maligned darkness unduly? Perhaps the blank slate reflects our own psychological state more clearly than a mirror. As the harvest vines begin to wither, are death and decay byproducts of the extended evening, or is it a gracious cover?
Similarly unsettling is the nothingness that represents silence. Darkness is at least visual. In that moment of recollection for lives lost, silence can become an unwitting accomplice. Silence is nothing if not predictable.
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