Nuit, mon amour

Night. From between the dull silhouettes of trees, I hear the heavy, iron sound of a train passing nearby, muffled by the dark darkness of the night, which prevents me from hearing or seeing anything clearly. The sound echoes symmetrically, aiming in the opposite direction, where it finds resistance and returns, tapping one ear and then the other with the subtle vibration of its nocturnal song, quickly fading into oblivion.

Night. The deeper it gets, the denser it becomes, like river silt. The dust of the day soaks up its weight, layer by layer falling towards the core of the planet, then finally soothes its fatigue, lying down on the pillow of the bottom, and like a shroud, merges with it forever. Without asking, it forces me to dive into its tempting promise of a risky abyss. It envelops me in a tight embrace, bringing all objects within reach, and even closer, until I can smell them, feel their weight and the relativity of the spacetime separating us.

Night. Another state of consciousness, a hidden dimension, creeping between day and day, between yesterday and tomorrow, between past and future. Intriguing and maddeningly attractive. The present is most itself at that moment, in the middle of the night, when my hands touch its sensual substance, as if I were embracing my beloved. And the night — reciprocates the kiss, bringing to mind the shape of His lips, the impatient and thirsty scent of intention between the lines of His words.

Night. I know neither the beginning nor the end of you. You appear slowly among shades of gray, like an image developed on photographic paper. I wait for you at the gates until you appear at your indeterminate moment, imperceptibly, like a string of cranes flying away, which the falcon's eyes cannot catch up with.

Night. You envelop the shapes of my imagination with wordless understanding, regardless of how closely they resemble reality, like an accomplice to the most imaginary fantasies. We set off together, right now, on a journey of no return, the journey that calls to me in my dreams, whose destination is of no importance, for it is an end in itself, leading to transcendence, a noumenon impossible to comprehend by all those I must leave behind, to whom I can offer only a truly sincere, insufficiently pitiful Adieu.

Night. You are wonderfully naked, free from all those meanings that define my everyday life, entangled in efforts to find meaning. You shed the cloak of convention and urge me to do the same, tempting me so effectively that I finally succumb. You know, I actually wait longingly for you every evening to give myself to you, to continue our secret flirtation, platonically innocent, surrealistically real and mysterious, like Magritte's The Kiss. You offer delightful pleasure, but you do not satisfy; on the contrary, you arouse a painful desire for possession, loss, fulfillment, complete devotion, in which I eagerly and boundlessly lose myself, like a stone in water.

Night. Although shrouded in darkness, you see things in their true light, as they really are, passion is passion, love is love, emptiness is emptiness, madness is madness. You know how to listen patiently, you are gracious. You are not jealous, you do not seek applause... you endure everything, you believe everything... you can withstand anything. You never cease. And you are always silent. Nuit, mon amour.