Solitude and Dark

 I've never been afraid of the dark. I'm more afraid of the day, of people. I love the night. The solitude. Well, I don't love it. I don't feel love. I hate people, so I hope when I get there it isn't crowded. I hope the light is a momentary phenomenon and the other side is completely black. And silent.

― Julie Anne Peters, 

By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead

There is certain kind of honesty in these words. A rawness that does not apologize. It speaks for all

 those who have never feared the dark- not because they are brave, but because the darkness feels more 

like home than the world ever did.

We're taught early on that the dark is something to be afraid of. It hides monsters. It hides truth. But 

what if the real monsters are not in the shadows, but in the daylight? In the rush of people, the noise of 

expectations, the suffocating brightness of attention?

Anne captures a kind of quiet rebellion- the voice of someone who has stopped pretending to love what 

they do not, who finds more comfort in stillness than in society. It's not a romanticized loneliness, but a 

survival- the kind born from deep disconnection and emotional fatigue. 

The desire for the other side to be "black and silent" isn't morbid; it's a longing for rest. For stillness. 

For escape from a world that can be unbearably loud, painfully bright, and overwhelmingly crowded.

Sometimes, the dark isn't a place we're pushed into. It's a place we walk toward. Quietly. 

Willingly. Because it is the only place left that feels like peace