Evenings scare me these days. The retiring Sun, the rushing movement of birds from Colony wires to hidden nests and the ever-changing sky scare me.
It’s not like the darkness scares me, no. It’s just what it represents. It can be beautiful to those who choose to see it that way. But these days, darkness is a choker around my porcelain neck that turns it shades of awry black and deep blue. It sits in my room every night, waiting to halt my breaths and endeavors to suffocate me until I can’t see straight or think coherently.
Evenings scare me these days. When I was younger. I met the realm of darkness head-on. I barged into it, like bulls in Pamplona do in fights annually. When I was smarter, I conquered darkness, as if it were a plateau and I mounted that piece of raised land.
Evenings warm me these days, too. They inform me, telling me that Night might bring an omen that does not suit my desires or Destiny, for that matter. Evenings are the vestige of a good day and the start of something so unknown, so unpredictable that even Indian Pandits cannot fathom what it is and what havoc it might bring to my life.