Night was my favourite time of the day when I was young. This was the time to watch the moon, stars, sky, and feel the wind blowing. I used to sleep under the sky on my rooftop. Used to go early to sleep to avoid all the hustle and bustle after evening, and lie down on bed to watch the night sky. It was magical—I still feel the nostalgia.
There was a stillness in the air that felt like a quiet conversation between the universe and me. The world below faded into a distant hum, and the sky above stretched endlessly, comforting and infinite. I would trace constellations with my eyes, invent stories about stars, and wonder if the moon ever noticed me back.
But it was not the brightest stars that fascinated me on dark, moonless nights. It was always the farthest and dimmest ones—the barely-there flickers trembling on the edge of visibility. They made me wonder: how does it feel to be so far away from the centre of gravity? To shine so quietly, so far from attention, yet still exist—still matter?
Sometimes, the wind would whisper secrets through the eucalyptus trees nearby, and other times, silence itself would speak volumes. I didn’t need lullabies—just the soft rustling of leaves, the distant bark of a dog, or the rare, thrilling sound of an owl calling in the dark.
Those nights taught me to listen. To pause. To be. They became my earliest lessons in solitude and reflection—gifts I didn’t understand fully then but hold close now.
Even today, when life feels too loud or too fast, I close my eyes and return to that rooftop. To that little girl lying under the stars, dreaming quietly, held by the vastness of the night.