The secret self

Deflected like nocturnal light. This light, don’t be mistaken, is of an unkind type, a childless dereliction, late corpuscular, shaken. In virtue of its sullenness it becomes addictive, like a search, a plight in the dark, a sighting of forgotten souls who crave for the night when the flame of diurnal light renders them insane, impatient for meaning, inflicted by the hurt from some king of penitence that resounds like guilt, guilt for feeling alive without a blueprint, with no essence in which to find themselves.

So the night is a perilous refuge, a scent of the void, charming, close woven. It grounds you to the magnetic grid of the earth, directionless but deepened by its temperature variability and its solid clusters of reasonless isotopes. 

The secret self revealed, but out of grasp.