Springbonjo

The chimes, if there is one fine grandfather clock, would strike the ominous sound. Sleepless souls would freeze for a moment, their irrational self would overtake logical thinking; they would wonder and hearts stop at a mystery shadow in the dark from their beds they hadn’t seen before. A girl is alive- she lives for the night. Of insomnia which made her grow to enjoy the long nights. It is awfully quiet, sounds are magnified. The ticking of the clock; alarm clocks, the cheap plastic clock on walls, even sometimes the beating of her heart, loud as they can be while drowned out in the daytime. Sometimes she reads- the old flame of books masking a wonderful alternate world or simply fascinating facts, sometimes she watches television- oh the wonders of cable television repeating prime time shows and loved sitcoms or live soccer matches which first introduced her to this unexplored part of the day and familiarised her with it-, sometimes she goes online to marvel at the superficial yet much voyeured lives of celebrities and bloggers who create colourful online personalities. No music, preferably, the tiniest of noises are to be savoured at this time for a reason.

She is hungry- she wakes from mid noon and there is still tea and dinner to go, if that is appropriately named. Sometimes her peace is disrupted by others; sometimes she resents the loneliness of it when she needs a holding hand, a comforting touch; just a shoulder to lean on. But getting used to the solitary ways, it’s okay, she has gotten through worst nights when she badly needed someone and survived by herself.

There is something about the dead still of the night that makes one severely depressed- 4.30am is a common time people kill themselves, 3am is the most supernatural hour, in inverse of the most holy hour of 3pm, laughing at comedies to find no one to share the laugh with. And yet the sudden rush of glee and freedom of isolation, dreams and passions come alive, impulses fill your head and urges to travel and run away surge through every single nerve in the body.

Oh bother, tomorrow she has to wake up in the morning. Mornings are dull, there is no magic. It doesn’t play, like the midnight melody. It stops at the break of dawn, and she knows the tune well, she is a member of the melody every night after all.