In the quiet of my night

In the quiet of the night, I can contemplate the most marvelous things or the most pitiful sorrows. I can make them as big or as small as I choose. With only the low hum of my fan, I sit here and type away. Sometimes I wish I could type away the misery of my own and other people's lives; yet I cannot. It is then that I feel so small. And I type and I type.

In the quiet of the night I can type chapter after chapter of my life, which may never be read, save by me; chapters that I've written that never a tear was shed until I reread them. It is only through the growth of my spirit that I am able to look in hindsight and weep in sorrow or in joy. Yet when the pain of too much sorrow or too much joy would overwhelm me I move to the quiet of the night and I type.


In the quiet of the night I can know when I'm sad. I can know when I'm joyful. I can know when someone else feels those same feelings. I can offer a shoulder, a smile, or both. Indeed when tears are shared and mingle together with someone who understands, they offer comfort… in my quiet of the night.