Nocturnal Mammals

We hide in the wings, there is no daylight for us. The moon is our light bulb. Its incadescence slowly melts the thick gravel that covers our skin. We were never told this is how it’s supposed to be. Children of the night, vespers full of remorseful love and untold sorcery. It’s a path well trodded: our journey isn’t a very brave encounter until it needs to be. Hence the excitement of possibility; we see you, but you don’t see us. And it feels good. The other side of the fence. The revealing cracks. Their inability to contain noises of intimacy. In the dark, shining with background lighting like a star about to dive into its death. We feed on heavy, thick milk of the night. Every day is like Ramadan, we wait for the dark and eat it as if it were a loaf of bread. As long as we remain silent, no one will disturb out peace: only leaves dancing on the fury of the wind between the trees. There is no place we belong to. All of them belong to us, but we allow you to believe it’s not true. We do not exist, as far as you’re concerned. That’s what makes us nocturnal, creatures of a mind that’s unable to speak unless in tongues unknown. You can’t whisk us away by crucifixes or holy water: this is not a Hollywood film. It’s not your blood we’re after anyway. You have to be deaf to hear us. To mute the world is to finally turn to yourself. There’s no escape and that’s ok. In order to survive the labyrinth, you need to make friends with the Minotaur. The guiding thread hangs from the skies showering us with fertile silver dust. Join the silence singing from the deepest pits: we know how it feels within. And just be. A ship is destined to surrender to the sea.