Capturing Emotional Photography: Another Submission

Night

A short piece recounting the powers that be in the dark.

Where did my fear of the dark come from? I just remembering that a night light kept a familiar surrounding visible, and that once the night settled in, most things were unrecognizable. Normal creaks of the house stood out as screeches of animals. I remember bearing witness to a shadow one night so grotesque and surreal, it shook me into visions of ghastly images in the shadows. Now I associate night with activity, of a more reserved nature. I am tired at night, because during the day I labor, or play, a nice portion. I only want to find my bed in the darkness and allow my settings to fade away as I restore myself. I think I stopped fearing the dark after I relished in the mysteries the darkness held, like treasure stowed away in a black, key-locked chest. At night, beautiful sights are beheld like fireworks, flashes of light, reaching colors of a spectrum unknown to the black ink of the evening. I remember in my tenth year, I kissed someone in the darkness. An experience so different, I can only characterize it by the hastened pace of my heart. Naïve curiosity pushed me mentally, when I ponder that moment. Initially, I was unsure what to do at such a proximity with anyone, with such low visibility. But the assumption made from my previous formal night attendance, and some context from others, clarified that slow dances were ambitions like a tightrope walk. A tentative step at a time, a performance with the objective of preserving your stance, your cool, and getting across to the other side. I think black is an excellent color for evening attire. I hadn’t the slightest sense for elegance, but I made sure to approach with my best impression of grace and stepped to music I can’t remember toward a moment I’ll never forget. My hands at her hips, and her arms locked above my shoulders and around my neck, her hands laid limp, occasionally teasing the nape of my neck. I can only describe my experience as a sensory overload. Bless my mother for insisting I present myself in the most handsome manner possible, from my collar I’m certain she took note of my cologne, as I did her strawberry shampoo, a sign of excellent taste. A clumsy ordeal, we shuffled to and fro alongside some ballad of romance and passion until the music changed. With another club hit blaring in the background and the blur of adolescents my age exploring their intimacy and dance style, we closed the foot between us. I’m quite thankful she led the way, as I was still lost, despite enjoying myself. She closed her eyes, and I remember a resounding approval for gems the same tone as mine. I took note of her leaning in, and only followed her lead. A softness reserved only for the experience of sharing a kiss, I remember and still rave at that moment. I bridged my hands together in the small of her black and drew her closer. I seem to do the right thing after a prompting. I’m working on it.

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^Thoughts?