A while ago, someone asked my what is my favorite time of day.
"Night." I answered almost immediately. A night owl, post-sunset is when I do most at home. Running, walking, cleaning, cooking...all done in an audience of stars. Nighttime, when the city is sleeping, its breathing barely detected among the empty sidewalks and flickering street lamps.
But then I reconsidered, remembering tranquil mornings at university. The mornings (though few) where I got up before an 8am class and wondered why I didn't get up that early every day. The mornings I still felt a chill in the air and dew gripped onto the grass for a few more precious moments before the sun warmed it away.
And then it came to me. I don't have one specific favorite time of day. It isn't the time that matters, it's the feeling. It's the calamity I love, the quiet times where the rest of the world has either already fallen asleep or is not yet stirring. I love the power of the silence, the creeping cold of those hidden hours. I love the time that I have to my thoughts alone, to ponder, to wonder, to dream.
It is in those hours that I have been broken, yet it is in those hours that I have again been made whole.
Let the world sleep. It is my time.