Writing at night

I live over a bar and the bass booms all night through my floor. So it is definitely not the peace and quiet. Nights are not peaceful anyway. And peace never contributed to anything in the world. Without the big bang where would we all be? Would we even be?

I don't know. Do I even care?
But why write at night?
(Why write at all, but that's been done to death... in my head anyway...and plenty have pondered and written about it. But then, everything that has to be said, has been written already... that makes writing about anything at all a futile exercise).

Maybe writing is a kind of death - or at least it feels that way - how we pour out our life through our fingers and stain a couple of pages - a form of blood-letting in the hope of better health; redemption, salvation. And it's always in the longest nights of our lives we seek answers, dare to hope, love, or give in to fears or despair.

Maybe it is the darkness... under its cover, we can take refuge in our dreams and nightmares, without having others glimpse our inner demons. And face them on our own terms. Like making love in pitch dark that makes strangers out of partners and lovers out of strangers.

Night writing is after all just complicated Braille.