Awake

This one's gonna be short

My vote for the greatest sight and the greatest sound in the world, respectively: The night sky after snowfall and the chirping of birds.

When I was younger, I used to be really scared of going to sleep at night. Sleep, to me, was the ultimate relinquishing of control. My mind was free to wander into dark and scary corners I would never conceive of while awake. Nightmares are the product of an unreined consciousness. My body was similarly at danger. Rendered a useless sack of blood and bones, they could not defend against various villains that would inevitably come into my room. And something about the night, when good life has packed up, seems to produce a greater potential for evil to crawl up out of the corners where it usually hides.

So I would stay up, maintain my strongest defense, my consciousness, for as long as possible, often until the powerful tug of fatigue rendered me unable to. The skill has transferred some benefits to the present-day since my ability to push through the long hours of the night is useful for tight deadlines. At the time though, it didn't have the same practicality to it.

During the times when I didn't fall asleep, when I managed to make it through the entire night, I came to love two things, a sight and a sound: The glow of early morning and the chirping of birds. If I had a say in what the last things I could see and hear would be, it would be those two. They came to signal safety and comfort. When I saw the faint light of the sun starting to rise, accompanied by tentative chirps, it felt like life was coming back. There was no more need to be on guard, the world would no longer abide the creatures that might have come crawling in the night. There was life in the world now and that life could watch over me as I rested for a bare few hours.

My love for the early glow and chirping began as a love of safety, but there was also something enticing about the limbo of them which made it superior to the chattering of birds and bright sun at high noon. The world was awake but absent of the interference of human life, straddling that boundary between consciousness and unconsciousness. The light was substantive but faint, not glaring and noisy like in the day. The birds were testing the waters, not yet ready to screech at the world in full-powered bursts. Though I usually fell asleep as soon as I could, I relished the few moments between the waking of the earth and my drifting off. In those moments, the world was at its purest, untouched by motion, and entirely my own.

The feeling of a glowing sky is how I imagine pioneers, explorers, early migratory populations felt. Before every inch of the earth was mapped, before everywhere you went would have people. When you could go out and explore and explore and explore the endless bounds and be at the mercy of the earth and not the other way around. When life in this place was still learning to walk. That wonderful limbo of possibility.

The issue with dawn, though, is that it's fleeting. For the few moments of its existence, it's fantastic, but it's bookended by the sluggishly departing night and rapidly approaching day. The only time this isn't true is the night sky after snowfall. After a fresh snow (which itself is already a fantastic thing to behold), once the sun has left, light remains in the sky: An eerie glow of a sky drifting off but not ready to sleep just yet. It's fucking gorgeous and unlike dawn, which is fleeting and always growing brighter, the night sky after snowfall keeps a constant glow through the witching hours. With dawn, you get to own the world for the hour of its peak, but after a snow fall, you get all the deep hours of night.

Winter is coming. Stay up some nights when it snows. Bask in the glow of the night, let it completely envelop you, it is so ridiculously fantastic.

I would talk more about the birds. It does offer its own unique flavor. Unlike the glowing sky, hesitant chirping is reserved for dawn. While the glow of dawn bestows a sense of security in the form of a vague abstract presence of life, the chirping is much chummier. They feel like "good morning" texts or poking a friend at a sleepover to see if they're awake. You're starting the journey of the day with someone. It's the worst irony, then, that I am terrified of birds. Big fan of their chirping though.

I love these things. These inconsequential sights and sounds that just overwhelm you with feeling. There are more. Sitting in 106S during 7th hour in the fall or late spring, when giant beams of light stream in through those towering windows (well, not anymore). Listening to the radio with my dad on the way home from practice. LEGO videogames with my brothers. Look for these. They're great.