I have had ill feelings towards the day for as long as I could remember.. in the late hours of the night I remember the sensation that such a time could go on forever and that a person would never have to confront the wicked day again. During the day there is a whirring storm of noise, people, coming, going, activity, and a certain senseless activity to the world. Were you to stop a person and ask why it is that they are doing what they are doing, most persons would not know after sufficient probing. I think in this manner the activites of the day feels very exhausting.. it is noisiness without sense, and you really can do nothing but let its momentum overtake you.. it's a feeling of slavery or imprisonment.
The above image is from my favorite anime, presented is the inner world of Suiginto within an ephemeral and amorphous place known as the n-zone. Upside down and dark.. castles and shattered toys littering the floor. It's a beautiful place. Endless night protects the broken and abandoned denizens of her domain from judgment, being-seen, or being placed in a negative context where they would be understood as others relative to another.
Another episode of the upturnedness of her world. Is the inversion of daytime logic necessary for freeing oneself from the searing pain of daytime? I can't bear the daytime so easily.. I don't know if people share my feelings. I remember the sinking feeling of dread that would swell in my stomach when I felt the daytime approaching. When three in the morning bled to four, and four to five, and the first ugly shades of morning wounded my peace. It was as if everything you had ever known was revealed to be and to always have been nothing more than wooden props and cardboard cutouts.
I at times carry visions or memories of dark, otherworldly places as promises of life worth living or solace from the scorching day. I have theorized at length as to why I have such a rigid fixation on the night or such associations, but I was vindicated in part when I read Novalis' Hymns to the Night:
Now I know when will come the last morning -- when the Light no more scares away Night and Love -- when sleep shall be without waking, and but one continuous dream. I feel in me a celestial exhaustion. Long and weariful was my pilgrimage to the holy grave, and crushing was the cross. The crystal wave, which, imperceptible to the ordinary sense, springs in the dark bosom of the mound against whose foot breaks the flood of the world, he who has tasted it, he who has stood on the mountain frontier of the world, and looked across into the new land, into the abode of the Night -- truly he turns not again into the tumult of the world, into the land where dwells the Light in ceaseless unrest.