Member-only story
There is no Time for Stories When the Night and the Skies are Dark
Written by Miguel Santiago
A profound whisper metamorphoses into a melancholic echo, seeping into the tranquil silence of nightfall, marrying darkness in an intimate embrace.
The indigo night, weaving its bewitching tapestry across the expanse, silences the clamour of consciousness, manifesting as the poignant surface of a bottomless abyss. It masks the vibrancy of life, withholding tales of vivacious existence under its heavy, star-studded cloak, like tear-streaked whispers deformed by pain and encapsulated within the cryptic womb of the cosmos.
The world seems to slow, the tick-tock of time transitioning into a dissonant lullaby, measured by the silent wails of a moon too burdened to shine, too scarred to beam. The darkness, intensified by the absence of the sun’s reassuring warmth, weaves illusions of despair, meticulously threading every heartache onto the loom of solitude.
In the shroud of this cold desolation, tears succumb to gravity, etching rivulets of liquid sorrow onto the parchment of anguished faces. Each drop, a conductor forging a poignant symphony of hushed sobs, clasped hands seeking comfort, and trembling hearts echoing emptiness.
In the deep end of the night, beneath the obsidian ceiling hung low with heavy-hearted stars, stories, too sad for daylight, take refuge. There, in the hearts of forgotten lovers, shattered dreamers and weary fighters, they whittle away time, merging into the fray of the ominous silence – a testament to the tragic elegance, the tear-stained reality of the night.
