The Hum of Starlight

The air tonight tastes like cold salt and static. It is the kind of chill that settles deep into the marrow, a sharp, metallic hum that vibrates against the skin when the world goes quiet. I remember the feeling of standing on a pier, the wood damp and swollen beneath my bare feet, the smell of deep, dark water rising up to meet the scent of ozone. There is a specific heaviness to the night when the horizon disappears, a sensation of being suspended in a vast, glowing inkwell. We are small, yet we are anchored by the rhythm of our own breathing, a steady pulse against the infinite dark. It is as if the earth itself is holding its breath, waiting for the tide to pull the silence back into the deep. Does the night feel heavier to you when the lights begin to bleed into the shadows, or does it feel like you are finally beginning to float?

Joy Dasgupta has captured this feeling in the image titled Atlantis. The way the golden glow spills across the water reminds me of that same electric stillness I once felt by the sea. How does this light settle in your own chest?