I once cherished the night. I loved the cocoon of the couch or my bed, bathed in the blue glow of the TV or wrapped in a playlist that brought life to the silent walls. But I’ve realized this comfort is a profound illusion. Closing the curtains doesn't just block the night; it blocks the stark reality of our existence. The silence of death constantly reminds us it is lurking, waiting for the moment we lose the curtain, the wall, the blanket—the life itself.

Now, when I peer through the security of my peeled-back curtain and see the streetlights, I almost laugh. Those lights scream, "Come out! You are safe! I will protect you!" But safety is just a feeling, not a tangible or trustworthy thing. The lights are an intentional lie, designed to suppress our natural instinct to mistrust illusion. Over time, that deception has been ingrained. I imagine the cave dweller with fire never truly slept; someone was always aware of the darkness, the silence, and death.

Today, we have become universally blind to it.