The night is the night. It is not the day. It is dark and away from all that the light shows. It is trite to compare the two, night and day, I realize. I wish, perhaps more profoundly, to convey the quality of escape which the night offers. Though the day may be painful or tiresome or stressful, the night inevitably offers its solace of nothingness. When the day drags on and the evening brings thoughts of morose finality that a tired mind is want to entertain, the vacation of sleep reintroduces a novel and hopeful mindset the next morning. I am straying from what I really want to say. Awake in the middle of the night, I feel safe, protected from the day. The day has become too much lately. Its someness is overwhelming. I need a little less. I have told this to the day, but it never listens. Drowning me out with all the other noise of everyone else being awake. But the night always listens. When everyone else is asleep, I tell her my dreams. I want for the dreams to be real, and inevitably begin to want again for the creative possibility of the day. I bring to the day a thousand dreams, and it smashes them down into one possibility, and I will have to pay dearly just to get that one. So I return to the night defeated, but she encourages me again with a thousand dreams, and I wake in the morning to make real one more.