The night is a safe haven for us idealists. We can dream and imagine and hope under the cover of darkness. The snow falling from the sky, revealed by patches of light coming from street lamps, seems even softer and puffier than it is. We can live deep loves and experience earth shattering heartbreaks. We can afford it. It’s night time, after all.
But then the dawn comes and under the harsh light of the day it seems the expense for dreaming is too high of a cost to be paid. So we turn into realists and cynics. We assume our roles, we put on our masks and we step on stage with the confidence of someone who does not have any dreams to lose. We’ve hidden them well, haven’t we? Who’d know that our hearts and heads are filled with hopes and wonderful dreams?
I wonder…is that why the protests the Romanians are involved in these days take place mainly come nightfall? Is it that only then our ideals awaken, while during the day they’re buried under all our cynicism and our boredom of life and they’re suffocated by our attempts to get by as best we can?
Completely unrelated to the previous paragraph, I’m still waiting on that Christmas present…