The beauty of the night has been mused at for ages, and I am no exception to being subject to its mystics, but somehow, the night sky makes me feel strangely individual. Strangely alone. Alone in a beautiful, special way that leaves me in peace. Maybe that’s a part of the mystery of the night… when you gaze into its vastness, you feel as if no one else has seen the night as you have… no one has stopped to marvel at this beauty. It leaves you with a secretive feeling, an intimate relationship with a quiet, teasing friend. Artists and authors have, time and time again, felt compelled to recreate its beauty, to sing in its praise. And in this process, the night sky somehow becomes overrated. That’s why I didn’t look up for 9 years.
And then, finally, I did. It made me feel as if I am the only one that has ever peered into the depths of its shadows, the one exception who has taken time to appreciate the fabric work of the hundreds of crushed diamonds scattered across the dark satin cloak that we call “night.”

Let me tell you… the night I looked up at the sky… when I truly sat there and gazed at its beauty, I knew in my heart, that nothing would be the same from then on.


I never really understood inspiration until I met the night.