goes without saying that most nights can be quiet and the streets are empty. an occasional automobile escapes from your view. the velvet sapphire sky obscures the celestial bodies. I feel the emptiness that perpetuates from my surroundings. I feel so empty and filled. a double sensation of chaos and peace. at ease with my turmoil. That seems to be my popular mood nowadays. The terrible plague that catches hold of me every second I can spare it. aha. there is a beauty in such nights. the empty streets are not exactly empty. what crawls beneath? what searches the crevices and drains to dug into? there are mysterious things dwelling in the depths. things we do not want to see or imagine. but they hide themselves, waiting for their turn to appear, not in front of us, but to achieve some purpose we can never be sure. there are mysteries all around us. and it is the night that I feel my mind react sensitively to my surroundings. nights make the pores on my skin expand. I feel the coarse touch of the early morning moisture in the air, ripening for condensation and manifestation. I feel, more literally, the hammer knocking within my skull, which my sadness, my boredom, my madness, my questions, my emotions and my pain constitute the pounding of the steel on my brittle bone. I feel also the great flood that wipes them away at the moment of sleep, revealing in new forms in my dreams. Is there a method to resolve the tension that is ever so potent and threatening? But it seems so natural that I must live with it. To have chaos is precisely the reason for my peace. That ancient curse has found its wormhole in me. Are we so pathetically weak that we cannot resist such parasites from building their homes? Isn't it even a normal thing that I can transfer abstract ideas of my predicament to persons alive? We all do, in some manner most violently. To actual condition is ultimately an abstraction of my conscience, the reflection of my desires, or the objectification of someone, making it impossible to be subject, yet alone conscious. He or she is conscious, but why must I deprive him or her their own rights to their consciousness? I am so undesirably selfish. But that is the fault of many, the worst being the suicidal, who leaves the living to vie for their own worries. Love, if it should dictate and heavily depend on the other to please our pathetic urges, impulses and preferences, is not love, but a projection of our desires. If love should destroy, it is not love. But love, not honestly given, is also an act of violence to oneself. If it is not kind enough to be given, how can we possibly be kind to ourselves and expect our identities to reveal truthfully? How then?! There is no end to the question, to love or not to love, unable to judge myself if my feelings are of love or not of love. There remains no rest, especially in nights like these, when the morning turns her colour and announces the day. I am but one of many who stares out of the window, and laments the passing of the night, without any means of capturing her for my own pleasure, only to realise that she comes back the next night and so on, till my days end. (or repeats) There are great mysteries in the night, and I can only, for now, appreciate the night for the thoughts that surround me, making me more sensitive to them than the busy day that are ruled by impulses and desires more than careful contemplation.