Late nights have always been an artist’s guilty pleasure, as well as embarrassed secret. It’s difficult to keep up with the day and age’s pace and demands, and robbing yourself of sleep is no way to give yourself an advantage. And yet the night rewards you with quiet and a midnight solace, painted in dark colors so serene. I mind neither the full or new moon, I note the night colors of the clouds – it is a separate palette of turquoise, gray and deep sea blue.
What then is the purpose of the night to the creative mind? If it robs of sleep, it robs of valuable hours in the day. Less hours to rush, compete and otherwise thrive in a society where every moment counts. But even under such a threat, the late night dips into a creative tradition, where playwrights, poets, authors and other wordsmiths burn the candle wick and pen words through midnight. It’s not quite a séance, but it’s the closest commune with writers past that a passing amateur can receive.
Tomorrow, another possibility of snow.