What is this most curious relationship between the artist and the evening hours of the night? I think myself in love with her, the dark depths of evening, vain seductress as she reveals her most debauch and imaginative of possibilities. But now, a harrowing realization, that to end up awake in the late hours of the night, is not really to exist in the dark at all, but instead, to sit aside the subtle glow of some gentle light of man, some paltry artifice of the sun and his brilliant daytime tyranny. Could it be then that my love is second hand, or worse, a blatant scam, a poetic rouse of some simulatory aspiration for romanticized depth and creative angst? I think indeed the possibility ranks high, and amongst this dialogue I explore this why.

Another curiosity then, this time not so much of the darkened hours, but instead of her distant solar lover, that of the midday sun. What is this most fascinating of poetic architectures so seemingly hardwired into the mind of man, this correlation of light and truth, light and the revealed? To peer upon the paintings of medieval man and his secret yearnings for knowledge buried in the representations of Christ and mother, always alight in the piercing glow of some quasi blinding light, restrained only by the timid clouds of some earthly gloom, gives to one all there is to know about truth, found there buried in those crackling depictions and the thousand words they’re burdened to carry upon the walls in which they hang. Truth is the revealed element in life. Light is truth. And the more of it that is present, as there is in the devastating bright of the midday summer sun, the sillier become one's illusions in regards to their complexion as they peer into the mirror and entertain a momentary subjugation of self.

What can we say of this light? Firstly, that in the light nothing is left to the imagination. The more brilliant the light, the less is there left to be imagined. More and more of what remains to be apprehended by perceptive consciousness is devoured by sense and her correlate warehouse of memories; and indeed, to see yourself in the mirror in this light is to imagine nothing fantastical about self, but instead, to walk away in a sort of dazzled hurt, insulted by the imperfections you so effectively ignore in a more favorable light. This hurt pangs for a time, dominating the mind, but it's vigor must itself yield to the ebb and flow of all things; a reprieve is in sight, one that comes all too predictably at the death of every day cometh... Night.

But even here, in the brazen shy of tempestuous night, a more baffling insult than is found in the day, this time born of one's interior... Fear. We peer into the vacuous temporality of an empty room and feel not delight and reprieve of the insulting daylight, but instead a morbid anxiety as to what dangers might lurk within those shadowed walls. Here is revealed something great of man's mind, namely, that it is here in this very darkness that all things are born. We are not so much afraid of the dark itself, for the dark is not a thing, but is rather the lack of a thing, the lack of anything whatsoever. No rather, we are not afraid of what is, but instead, what could be. We are afraid of the infinite possibilities that lurk inside that vacuous black, limited only by the particular imaginations we so diligently carry upon our shoulders.

This dark then is the birthplace of all things. If the universe be nothing but one great mind, and we as but cells within this greater mind; can we not expect the workings of our mind to be but a fractionalized representation of that which lies beyond and greater than ourselves. If we can ascertain for ourselves that this dark is the birthplace of all things in our own late-night meanderings, then be it not the burden of greater mind and universe to construct her temporal-spacial dreams in thus a similar fashion? Does not the vast darkness of space remind one of the hallow dark they find within their own minds in meditation. Let us cheer ado then to this nature and her triumphant fits of anarchy and dark, for only in this temper does she construct all her most beautiful and bizarre of creations, including the very vessel that here amuses you with such fanciful tales as you are now reading. You and I both are but imaginings of this greater mind, born of dark, first from mind, then in womb, a most bathetic calculus, before returning to the infinite dark of tomb. In the dark anything is possible. In the dark, everything is possible. Cheers!

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