The night sometimes makes you feel safe. Protected from the madness of the day. In the quiet hours post 12, your soul chooses to unclothe. Or cozy up, and just be. Unlike in the day when you adorn a dozen faces to please a dozen people. No compulsive pang to constantly please everyone around. No routine, timed existence. No urge to run, go breathless and perspire. Pointlessly.
I am so glad, each day has a night. Someone I trusted once told me this, because I believed in praying. Don't ignore it for its childlike ingenuousness. He asked me to pray before the day began, asking God to protect me, knowing very well that I would also have to try as hard to protect myself. And then say another prayer before I went to sleep, saying that, now that it's night, my defenses are down, the thrust solely falls on Your mighty shoulders. I did that, for as long as I trusted him. Even do it now. Anyway.
Multitude of nights, this way, slept away. Curled, saving the warmth in my belly, dreaming, running, chasing, looking. In the various rooms I have lived in. Mostly alone. Sleeping alone, spending the night alone. It amazes me, that though I have spent days together, shared mornings, afternoons and even nightfalls, I have never particularly shared a night. And that makes me feel prenatal in ways more than one.