Crow and Flame

I’ve never been one to fear the dark.

For as long as I can remember, I preferred it.

I wanted to turn off the lights and disappear into the shadows—to be cloaked in darkness and let it envelop me completely. There was something comforting about becoming almost invisible. Something peaceful about not having to be seen.

I kept a little flashlight nearby for when I needed to reach for something, but most nights, I didn’t need it.

I would lie back and stare through the window, counting stars.

The darker it was, the more clearly I could see them.

And on the nights when the sky was truly black, when the moon surrendered its place and the world seemed to hold its breath, I could see the Milky Way stretched across the heavens like a scar made of stars.

I loved those nights.

Because darkness never asked me to explain myself.

It never demanded that I smile when I was hurting.
Never asked me to pretend I was fine.
Never expected me to perform some acceptable version of myself for the world.

The darker it was, the less likely I was to be noticed.

And sometimes, being unnoticed felt like safety.

There was a peace in the night that didn’t exist in the chaos of daytime.

During the day, everything felt exposed.

Too bright.

Too loud.

Too close.

The world had a way of finding every tender place when the sun was up. Expectations waited in the light. Responsibilities. Voices. Questions. People who needed things. People who wanted pieces of you.

But the night?

The night gave me back to myself.

I could breathe there.

I could disappear without actually being gone.

Maybe that is why I’ve never understood the way people speak about darkness as though it is inherently evil. As though everything hidden beneath the cover of night must be dangerous.

But I learned something a long time ago:

Not everything that hides in the darkness is waiting to hurt you.

Sometimes the darkness is where you heal.

Sometimes it is where you finally stop running.

Sometimes it is where you sit quietly with all the pieces of yourself you were too afraid to look at in the light.

And sometimes, the darkness is simply where you can see the stars.

Maybe we spend too much of our lives trying to escape the dark.

Maybe we turn on every light because we are afraid of what we might find in the shadows.

But I have found that some things cannot be seen beneath fluorescent lights.

Some truths need darkness.

Some wounds need quiet.

Some versions of ourselves need a place where no one is watching while they learn how to breathe again.

The crow knows this.

Crows are creatures of shadow, but they are not creatures without light.

They know how to sit on the edge between the two.

And maybe that is what I have been learning all along.

That darkness does not always mean destruction.

Sometimes it means shelter.

Sometimes it means rest.

Sometimes it means becoming still enough to hear the things inside you that the daylight drowns out.

So I no longer apologize for the part of me that finds comfort in the shadows.

I have spent enough time learning that not every dark place is a place I need to escape.

Some are simply places I needed to survive.

And some?

Some are where I learned to look up.

Because the darker the sky became…

the more stars I could see.