I used to be afraid of the dark.

It was routine. Clockwork. Night would come inevitably and I would flock to light like a proverbial moth. I would avoid pools of blackness in moonlit gardens, though the moonlight never comforted me completely, and sidle up towards street lamps on deserted roads. For some, darkness is a fear of the unknown, but for me, it is a fear of all my imagination can conjure up in the spaces.
Or at least it used to be.

One evening Night swept in my room as I pensively contemplated life. He dressed in his usual attire of sinister black, and doffed his hat at me in friendly manner. I was not swayed by his affability, and immediately moved to turn on a light and send him on his not so jolly way. But tonight was different, odd. His gloom was enthralling. His eyes were glittering stars, they bade me come.

And so I did. Forgetting my apprehension, I tumbled out into the open air, my bare feet traipsing across the slick backs of sodden grass. The moonlight sparkled on the dewy blades, like stars that had fallen. I felt euphoric. I drowned in ethereal Night. I danced, I waltzed with Night. And he was agreeable. He drew me, and I felt a part of his personality, untamed beauty, quiet skies, mysterious sounds. Sky was his canvas, and he painted beautifully.

But by the by, he grew tired of me, I think, and turned cold. I stood patient though, as he became sullen, then finally departed.

And bid him a silent farewell as sparks of light shot through the sky.

We are friends now, in a sense,  night and I. At least I understand him better, and I am no longer afraid of his mood swings, I bear them gracefully. Sometimes he is overwhelming and oppressive, dashing his canvas so that it is ruined, and other times he is fresh and pure, and paints smooth strokes.
I do not assume to understand Night, though. I learned to accept his violent changes, but I do not know what or when to expect them. For Night is not to be comprehended by trifling humans.
He is an enigma to all but one.