I am kind of petrified of the dark.
I always have been. I went to sleep every night with my light on until I was in my early teens.
It's not the darkness, per se, that's frightening; it's what may be lurking inside those shadows that scares the bejeezus out of me. Too many horror movies when I was far too young to be watching them did nothing to help allay my fears. Rousing in the middle of the night, I always imagine I see some indistinct, humanoid shape in the corner of the room. And if I have to go into the hallway or (God forbid) the basement at night, it's always Pinhead that's waiting at the end of my path.
But the darkness itself... well, that's kind of a different story.
I love being comfortably in the quiet shadow. I feel like I can bend and twist the shade into the cover I need, be it a lot or a little. It's always been the place I was most free to dismiss my misgivings and shortcomings, to release my inhibitions and let my own inner light pulse dimly or brilliantly, as the moment demanded.
To take away so much of my most used sense forces the others to compensate. While I may be myopic in shadow, sound and touch become much more keen. Music and sensation feel electric, and I am wholly entranced by that feeling.
But that darkness also holds a silence that's begging to be heard. The stillness contained therein demands a certain consideration, and I am enduringly willing to let that hold my attention, to envelope me in its secrets and dreams and fantasies.
Inevitably, though, the light returns. The daylight isn't by default a terrible thing. It is beautiful and comforting in its own right. It can also be harsh and terrifyingly revealing. But I can't hide in the light. There's little room to be covert when you're illuminated. Somewhere, between the dark and the light, is the place I am most balanced and most erratic, feeling the tug of two different kinds of truths, their constancy pulling in opposite directions and holding me firmly in momentary stasis.