The Revelation: I am the darkest-skinned of my mother’s daughters. I can still recall snippets of memories with my mom and sisters comparing our skin tones and deciding definitively that I was the darkest. I was not the one who decided.
What they didn’t know was I didn’t have to compare or test my skin against any others. I know just how dark it is.
What intrigued me always and still enthralls me is the night. The sensuous clandestine time of day in which the world turns a blind eye and magic happens.
I used to think that when the sun finally set, the first gust of wind you felt was the world exhaling relief, respiring the stress and worry of the day. That was nighttime to me. The sensuous blackness, the two to eight hour cape draped over your sins. A moment for the sun to turn a blind eye.
In the night, I come alive. My skin tingles with the electric possibilities. At night, I can do EVERYTHING or nothing, and it does not matter. I can howl at the moon in my monthly madness, or sink into a hidden speakeasy to swallow my afflictions to the sweet sounds of music.
Music. My God. Music is like an orgasm when experienced at night. The familiar warm comfort it envelops you in causes an eruption of creativity and spontaneity. Artistry feeds in the cover of night, camouflaged and invisible to the sleeping world. When the rest of the world awakens, it’s to a dawn of new life and conceptions, the fruition of a nights hard labor.
What epitomizes the night, and what makes it glow with singular energy, is the black obscurity and anonymity it affords. The darkness.
The Realization: I love the night, because of the dark. I cannot love anything, if I cannot love my darkness.
Author: Jessi Jones
Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: Jessi Jones is a creative professional who lives in the Midwest with her partner and dog, Bowie. She lives for music, the outdoors and the written word.
Link to social media or website: https://cirquedelanuitblog.wordpress.com/
