The colors fade now. Universal shadow covers all, causing the definition of pearly buildings to blur at the edges, to lose definite shape and boundary. Still, it is not dark. A purely pale disc has begun its ascent, casting soft light across the arcades and spires below. To aid in the endeavor, thousands of glittery speckles contribute their own fine beams of light into the infinitesimal roughness of the clean white walls. No other light attempts to interrupt the sacred glow, none brave enough to disrupt the visual quiet of the night.
Along the wall-like lines of buildings are drawn shuttered windows, snuffed lanterns, and duller white shines incorruptible even by the hue of gold that seems to oft run about the city. In the background are found silhouettes of fabricated spires and aqueducts, no longer resplendent in the night’s cold light. The moon’s arrival is far less favored by the buildings of gloss and gilding, for it refuses their colors, and does not invoke the art of reflection nearly as well as the sun in its prime hours. It is a disappointment to architecture, lending only vagueness of shape and loss of definition. It is the bane of a weary traveler, for it bids the loss of a path, or, in extreme cases, consciousness. Such is the moon that lights tonight.
Still, the streets are forced to accept its boon, for without it, they would have no light at all, and would be as well a shadow as the void between the speckles of the sky. In a way, the moon makes clean what the sun declaims dirty. The small cracks of the cobblestone pathways are muddled by the soft light, making the road more characteristic of simple pavement. Additionally, the moon shines indiscriminately on bright and faded buildings alike – faded of which there is but one spire, far beyond and unfamiliar, past the street’s left wall of shops and restaurants.
The pale light has also caught the finery on the buildings, and left weblike shadows to adorn walls and ways. The resonant color finds its way into some serene water running through an aqueduct in the background, and casts a bit of glittering light into the scene, offering itself to shine calmly, waving with the water to establish the strange, slow tempo of night. The glass along the street’s ‘walls’ are no longer lucid, and offer only sheer white in response to the speckles and rays against it.
On these vague stones, the familiar stallion is caught mid-stride, his vibrant blue coat dulled to match the night sky, with only a small difference of hue and a solidity of form to separate him from the speckling of stars and space behind. His eyes are cast forward, towards an object unknown. The pools of blue-green – mainly green now – are dully cast, likely set not on an object in particular, but glazing over a blurry, unimportant canvas of the city.
The excitement is gone now, and though the hunger seems to have been well-satisfied, the nighttime has brought an end to the city’s daily pageantry, and thus the bright shine previously reflected in the livid pools is smudged away. Though the wings are well-tucked, they are rustled, perhaps from a fit of shivering. The light of the moon is indeed colder than the darkness, and its scope is far less popular among those stranded in its light. Over the eyes, twin lines flatten and slightly depress, and underneath the snout is a flat line, rather dissatisfied with its current state, but unwilling or unable to remedy it. The black of his mane is indiscernible from the night sky if not for its dull absorption of the moonlight, and the stark feather, yet unsullied by the moon’s blurring influence. The tail trails behind, listlessly, without goal or destination, keeping rhythm of the wayfarer’s pace, undying even in night.
Slung over the stallion’s shoulder is the familiar satchel, which has a few odd bulges now, but a sorry realization borne along. Dangling by its drawstring from behind the bag’s large flap is a small pouch, without a single hint of bulge or shape within. The pouch is little to mourn in the day, for in the day can be found opportunity. However, the night is far less forgiving of such a transgression. So originates this meeting of dulled shades and near-sky blues. Still this nighttime capture, despite the blended regret, is still a choice made when the sky was yet unremarkable, perhaps made even back when that same unremarkable sky was first beautiful and appreciated, in the first days of wayfaring. The eyes do not regret the night sky; rather, they regret its dominion of colorless shades and chilling air. Night lacks the life of day, despite its greatest efforts to be a scene far apart in its own beauty.
But the wayfarer brings a short spark of life to the night. Perhaps his coat adds just that small bit of extra color to the broad expanse of the night sky. Day is defined more by the colors under it than the colors it casts, regardless of uniqueness or splendor. Little color takes place in the night, and thus the night remains a less thrilling canvas to paint across. It merely lacks the lively blends that the day encourages. Still, an omnipresent color soon becomes invisible; perhaps it is better that the night lacks it. Otherwise, the stars might be lost in familiarity, the colors undistinguished between night and day. Perhaps the beauty of night is that it refuses external color. Perhaps a denial of outer color reveals a set of colors beneath, if only a glimpse or reflection. As the city comes into a vague relief against the night sky, the heart of the night becomes more transparent, its motive left bare. The night’s affection is not for the colors that attempt to make themselves known, but instead rests on the few colors that attempt to know themselves.