I do not like working in the evening. The day demands release while the mind insists that so much more can be done. My mother was right when she said that one must go play in the evening.
I feel like playing. I feel like galloping. Rolling, twisting, turning, falling. Until the body heals, I must hibernate.
The night is an altogether different story though. It is so nice this night. The crickets hum, I can hear myself go clackety clack on the keyboard and the mind is quiet, but not dull. It can think, but not so much that it stem action. The lights are dim and warm, the window wide open and the brick walls still and comforting. And outside, a vast land that cannot come into my warm home. For tonight at least.
Since I can hardly say it well enough, another one for the night.
From Vikram Seth's Golden Gate; an excerpt
Dark night, and silent, calm, and lovely,
That stills the efforts of our lives,
Rare, excellent-kind, and behovely
No matter how the poet strives
To weave with epithets and clauses
Your soundless web, he falters, pauses,
And your enchantment slips between
His hands, as if it's never been.
Of all times most inbued with beauty,
You lend us by your spell relief
From ineradicable grief
(If for a spell), and pain, and duty.
We sleep, and nightly are made whole
In all our fretted mind and soul.