We are the band of people who do not let each other read their stories because we know it scares us. We do not talk in our sadness, but it comes out of our eyes and with the smiles we create everyday; wallowing worlds of depression. We are the dark ones: the Nightwalkers.

She says her worst season in winter; he says his worst season is fall; I say my worst season is spring. We know, the three of us, what summer was: we all know what summer is. Summer is the time when we run around with our souls tucked deep away and have scores of endless black nights to cry our hearts away. She thinks of death; he thinks of family; I think of friendships. But all of us know this darkness. Especially the ones who possess but do not admit.

They call us Nightwalkers. Nightwalkers, I suppose, because we steal about surreptitiously in the shadows of the night. We slept through the scorching light of the day and carefully avoided the glow of street lamps and city lights.

Retreating, blindly, through a small patch of woods in my mind -- I retreat and the world fades to darkness, a candle extinguished suddenly without warning or call.

But it was always dark, I think, because we are the Nightwalkers, who avoid light and stay in the dark: where it was enough to not know, where it was enough to not be able to see, sometimes not to be able to hear or think or smell or taste. Because in the dark you can see my soul. And that is enough to know, that is enough to see in the darkness.

We never really have to retreat to the light. It isn’t necessary.

But it is right.