Submitted Date 03/23/2019

The wind howls. The clock ticks. The stairs creak as my father goes to bed. I hope my typing isn't loud enough to raise attention.

The wind rushes through the air at night, while I sit enclosed in my little space. A small lamp splays warm light over pale blue walls from the corner of the room.

The quiet, the light, and the night hush the feeling I must "be productive" or do something with purpose lest I waste the day.

I could go on all night, unraveling some art within my mind and soul, letting myself play at last. But I won't.

What a blessing, this little space, with the warm light and the quiet of the night.

When only your room is softly illuminated,

when you alone can think your loudest,

and all is at rest, yet leaping in joy.

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