The Night Conceals Me

I should be sleeping. I should definitely be sleeping. But thoughts are always loudest at night time. There is no background noise, no hums, no ticks, no tv's or radios, no chirps, chimes or jingles; no noise that can cover up the internal monologue as it screams from the chasm within. But the biggest thought, coming from some crevice near the front of my brain, I summised somehow, was that the alarm I had set only two hours earlier would be ringing loudly in only another four.

I stared blankly at the red (red to highlight the evil undertones it contained) vintage 80's alarm clock, watching it struggle to move from 02:15 to 02:16. A sigh escaped my pursed lips as I rolled over to stare equally as blankly at the ceiling. The sigh fills the quiet void, I could almost see it, a line of steam coming warm from my mouth into the cold night, disrupting the still, chilled, post-midnight air.

It wasn't going to happen, I eventually concluded. That sweet release into the timid world of sleep was not going to consume me, not at this hour or the next. It's time to get up.

I pulled on a cosy red jumper. It was the sort of jumper that went with nothing. I couldn't wear it during the day for fear of being judged. It was neither smart nor formal, it's colour would disrupt and interupt the natural colours of the day, and it was slightly threadbare from being a comfort blanket of sorts. But perfect, I considered, thinking back to insomniac nights gone by, for a woodland walk under the stars.

I set off, closing the front door carefully and quietly, as if not to wake the moon. Thankfully the little cottage in which I had dwelled for nearly 25 years was in the middle of the country, surrounded by green fields that stretched for miles, and half-bordered by a forest trail that at a more reasonable hour would be filled with avid hikers and at weekends with corporate couples, keen to escape their concrete jungles and soak up the country air untouched by the pollution of the city.

Thankfully it was cold enough that the somewhat muddy ground that formed the trail had hardened, threatening to form deadly pools of ice in certain deeper troughs. My quiet crunches sounded loud at this time of night. The sound of stepping on a twig would be echoed by another being trod on by a bird, ruffling under a bush in a panic, horrified to discover he was not the lone scavenger at this time of night.

Lit only by the stars and the moon, I set off purposefully for my eventual destination. As I made my way further and deeper into the guts of the forest, a million trees shuffling along with me, a protective coat of green armour against the scary things concealed by the dark, I began to hum. Slowly, quietly, in time with my steps and each note would be welcomed (or more likely hated) by the creatures I would disturb on my way. The scrunching of some leaves - a squirrel, hiding his days food amongst the foliage. A scoop of dirt - a badger investigating as he preyed on some unsuspecting insects for his supper. A scratch - a fox, her orange hair flowing in the cool breeze of the night.

But my favourite, and often loudest companion was my old friend the barn owl. She sat in a tall tree, it might have been a redwood for the little I knew about the different kinds of tree species, surveying the ground beneath her, looking for a mouse or other creature for a midnight snack.

I stopped, silently awaiting her call. And she did. A long coo, welcoming me to this midnight paradise. Her brown and white feathers lit only by the little white light of the stars glistened in the night time. She was congratulating me. I had reached my end goal - a little clearing in the forest where the moonlight poured through, a cool invite to sit on a tree stump that overlooked the canopy.

There was a stream that ran against the back edge. I liked to think that a deer would drink here in the day, carefully listening for the many predators that faced her. The ground, where muddy elsewhere, became a pond of pine needles, providing protection to the roots beneath from the icy chill of dusk. As the water trickled, and the barn owl cooed, I could finally feel relaxed. The breeze that attempted to trickle its way nosily down my warm red jumper was trapped by a cold, pale hand.

I liked to think the woodland creatures would be watching from the cover of the fauna. Bats and hedgehogs, moles and voles, mice and birds and butterflies, would stop their snoozing or foraging to witness this intruder, finally reaching the habitat which truly felt like home. The nature, the chill in the air, the darkness which quietened her thoughts. She was a humble servant to the animals and plants that willingly but cautiously welcomed them to their home. Here, she was free.