She walked through the night. The blue glow of the fields made for an eerie, yet comforting atmosphere. It was all so like herself, she thought; a dim flicker of life in a vast sea of confusion. There had always been only the night, only that one comfort. She was alone, as she had been from the beginning. All that was true in her, lay in one moment, one kind of feeling. The night was her, and she was the night.
At dawn, it would all be gone for a while. She would travel far away, into worlds where souls are kept until it is time for them to resurface. Then, one night in the future, she would be again. The empty, black-blue sky, the scent of frost and the unchanging wind. Those things were her identity.
Alas, if it could be so. If one could cease to be oneself and turn into a part of nature's own soul. To go back home. But is it much more than a taunt, when these reveries come across us? An illusion, a self-deceit and a path to melancholy is what we shape, when we desire to be