The Subtle Taste of Midnight

Don't let anyone convince you that the night doesn't have a taste to it. That it's simply a collection of shadows that go 'bump' when you least expect it, that it's just the thing that happens when the earth turns its back to the sun.

Lies all. Mistruths fabricated to make you dismiss the night with a wave of your hand. And if you make the unfortunate mistake of seeing the night as little more than a sum of nothingness, then you'll miss out on the true beauty of it. You'll never get to feel the way it sits on your tongue, dark and heavy with flavors so exotic that they only lend themselves to descriptions groaned in the euphoric ecstasy of an orgasm so divine.

The taste of the night, hmm. How can it be described in words that a human mind can understand? It's the sweet of honey on a lover's skin, the salt of tears leaked in remembrance of hope lost. The spice of pepper seeds popping in the swell of your mouth. It is Life itself, afire with passion. Chew it. Swallow it. Feel it burn its way down your throat towards your belly. It's the universe falling quiet on your tongue, and deafening colors racing across the threshold of your pupils. It is silence so blindingly bright that your brain begins to bleed from your ears.

Close your eyes. Take a breath.

Taste...

                        ...Feel...

                                               ...and simply be.

Let the flavorful base notes drum your palate into ecstasy before the middle rolls in to carry you off to oblivion. And then, when your tongue has worn itself numb and useless, when that hint of musk finally kicks in to snatch your body and soul...

Breathe.

Hey, you there! Are you listening to me? Don't go, I say.

Come back.

To reality. To life. To the fear of what's to come and the relief of having lived through what has already gone. The dawn comes for us all, chasing us down like a grim reaper made of sunshine and hope. And once it is over, once the sweet, savored juices have melted into your soul, it's time for you to believe.

Taste. Feel. Breathe. Believe. That's the cycle that the night brings to your lips, to your heart and soul.

Taste. Feel. Breathe. Believe. And when it's all over, you'll crave. You'll hunger. You'll be so ravenous for more and unapologetic about it, that you'd let the Devil himself mindfuck you just for another crumb of that sweet, dark night on your tongue.

Just for one precious heartbeat of a moment.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

Of all the pieces of the night that one can eat, Midnight is my favorite. It's juicier and more tender, not quite parched and barky from the remnants of the day's sun and not waterlogged from the dawn's soggy dew.

Midnight. Just right.

Of course, it goes without saying that Midnight doesn't like being stuck between some predator's teeth. It fights back, kicking and screaming. It gets hopping mad every time I cut a gaping wound into it with my knife or lift a dismembered piece of it to my mouth.

"Don't," Midnight says, its succulent darkness slashing at the bone-paleness of the plate's porcelain. I hear the tears in its voice. "I beg you...don't."

I ignore it of course. If there's one thing to know about eating Midnight is that you can't fall for its cries for freedom, can't let it fill your heart up with pity or sorrow. Otherwise, the meat becomes tough and chewy, and the taste goes sour on your tongue like dreams abandoned.

Midnight groans again when my teeth sink into the fresh slice. It doesn't like being eaten. No one does, I suppose. But this is the way of things. Eat or be eaten. Be the shit on the ground or the bird in the sky.

Beyond the shadows outside the window, a tree branch shivers as a bird swoops down from its leafy shelter to steal a beakful of Midnight. But Midnight refuses to be taken advantage of, especially by something so puny as a half-starved, mange-riddled bird. It can't fight my knife and fork, but it sure can put a stupid bird in its place.

So, Midnight unleashes its rage on the thing, crushes its wings between its sharp fangs before the avian can scamper off with its prize. The bird's bones crunch hollow between Midnight's black fangs. And in a stroke of pure irony, the prey becomes the predator.

I laugh. "I thought you'd never stoop to such things. Eating flesh."

Somewhere between the crunch of bones and the slurp of bird guts and bile juices, Midnight says, "I eat to live."

"So do I."

"Not like me," it says.

"You're sharp tonight, aren't you?"

"I'm always sharp, little human."

"Hmm," I chew on another forkful of darkness, "and yet, I always manage to catch you."

"Luck."

"Skill."

"Call it what you may," Midnight growls back. The musk of the bird's death stains its breath.

I reach for a cup full of silence and bring it to my lips, while Midnight watches me keenly. Begrudgingly.

Night moths flutter quietly between us.

"Why don't you ever eat the Day?" Midnight finally grumbles. I give the most honest answer humanly possible.

"The Day is too dry," I say. "Too boring and full of people and their petty lives. It's all too confusing for me, you know. Like a rat-race bound for nowhere."

"And I am not confusing or dry?"

"No, sweet Midnight. You're...you're..." the words slip my mind for a moment, "...so much more. So much better."

Ever since I've started eating Midnight, I've seen many strange things. All those worlds hidden beneath, blotted out by the façade of normalcy and everydayed-ness, in which shadows have faces and voices, and words hang in mid-air like wisps of bonfire smoke belched skyward. There's beauty woven in the tapestry of Midnight's darkness, knowledge locked in musings woolgathered with such tender, loving care like saffron threads plucked from their flower at dawn. Ideas sit in these worlds beyond, unfinished and unfulfilled, begging for an ear to listen and a heart to feel; innermost demons yearning to be made flesh and bone and moonlit skin so that their cries can be scratched across paper.

So, to answer your question, Midnight. No, you're nothing like the Day, you're not the sum of your individual parts. Moon and stars and chalky dusk and the abyssal darkness of pre-dawn.

You are...My Muse. My inspiration.

I stab the last piece of darkness with my fork and wipe my plate clean with it before ungraciously shoving the whole thing into my mouth. Midnight peeks over at me with one lazy eye. Dribbled bird's blood dries slowly on Midnight's lips and chin.

"You say that as if it's normal."

"What is normal anymore?" I ask.