Midnight Rambler

Once again it is after 11pm and I'm just sitting down to write.  This final hour of each day is an interesting time, and to be honest, it's taken me quite awhile to be comfortable in it.  On one hand, it's quiet.  By this time the teenager has crashed and the house has settled down.  The cats are often asleep as well, or at least hanging out on one bed or another.  There is some sort of background noise going on -- usually the TV or iTunes -- but I don't pay much attention to it at all.  I sit at my computer and type, or jump around between writing, checking email (which we'll pretend is productive) or Facebook (which I cannot justify as anything else but delicious procrastination).  I'm always keeping an eye on the time so I can hit "Publish Post" before my CPU turns into a pumpkin.  My nighttime wardrobe is something to behold (and by "something" I mean "something else").  Tonight I'm sporting flannel plaid pants, a black top and a scarf.  It's a little cold (current outside temp:  FIVE), and the scarf, surprisingly does the trick.  It's not a look you'd see in any magazine (except the "what not to wear" magazine), but I'm somewhat warmish and very content.

But there are nights when my quirky alone time is just that -- alone.  The same house that was quiet and cozy is now way too quiet and just a little uncomfortable and sad.  On nights like this I don't feel productive or even wickedly guilty as I page through Facebook for the 29th time.  Quite the opposite.  My electronic communication device and window on the world somehow looks like nothing more than a gigantic crutch that depend on to make it through the night.  My nighttime wardrobe doesn't say "sporty" or "shabby chic" or "retro" or anything else.  I'm fairly certain it says "Nobody here to impress," and believe me, I take that directive to heart.  True, I'm somewhat warmish, but on nights like this, the last thing I am is content.

Darkness, solitude, and winter combine into a powerful force.  It's the dichotomy of this final hour -- one night comforting, the next night crushing.  But I do know that whether I'm feeling peaceful and content, or filled with a pervasive sense of melancholy, I am not alone.  So, I sit and write -- sometimes silly, sometimes serious -- and look forward to morning.