Into the late hours time seems to past, the mind awake, for creativity’s sake. Yet all the while, cozy in their rooms: typing, writing, thinking, reading what ever the excuse! It is a type of hunger, a required taste for those who stay up late. A rush of imaginative charm with little harm except for an alarm. To this I can say to all my fellow moon children and night owls ; “Good luck getting up.”
“Whot, whot,” it came from the darkness outside her window, were only the softest shades of life were illuminated by a full moon. Apart from the snoozing purr of her cat or the gang howling of coyotes there hadn’t been any other noise except for the occasional fall of a weak branch. So she had found herself surprised to hear an owl. They were so seldom heard now a days and even more rare to lay eyes on. “What a treat.” She thought to herself, setting down her pencil, now finding herself distracted. She leaned back in her chair, using her knee to stay balanced from under the rim of her desk as she stared up at the ceiling which was now cream-colored from the grow of her desk lamp.
Her small bedroom was none other than cozy; quilts layered the bed, books crammed themselves into shelves, throw blankets lay on a cushy arm chair in the corner, and sweaters dotting the floor. The white walls were covered in narrow frames made of sweet birch that housed antique drawings of fairies, mermaids, elves, and creatures galore.On her dresser carved wooden boxes stashed with jewelry piled themselves underneath an aged mirror. She had converted her tiny closet into an art studio that could barely fit in a bedside table and petite stool. Yet considering the amount of space in this closet, she had still managed to fit in a dozen mason jars full of concocted paints, messy brushes, old pens, and short pencils (most of which she had collected off the ground at school). Any other supplies was stored in a shoe box on the floor. In the only drawer of the tiny night stand/converted art desk was paper that had been neatly compressed into a stack so that each time she opened the drawer some of the papers got pulled to the back and jammed. Above her small studio on the closet shelf awaited many an anticipate canvas.
She looked at the floor. Her cat had curled up oh so comfortably on one of her sweaters. His orange hairs would choose the knitted material over him in the morning. Jim Dale’s voice had been speaking in the back ground, bringing to life the havoc of wizard children and a magical school. A wooden box stood on top of the book shelf by the door containing a story about long journeys and hairy-footed people who took it.
Indeed it was cozy even on a chilly night and moon girl awake at odd hours ( and a troll in the morning) looked out the window into the darkness. And if you were looking across a pond in the middle of no where towards a particular house, you would see a lone lit window and an owl hotting somewhere close by.