Dreaming of Stars

I think clearest in the middle of the night.
There is no pressure. No one to tell me what to do, or what not to do. Nobody to contradict me or put me down or hurt me. Not a soul to limit my imagination or reign in my dreams, lest I be carried away by the possibilities of something others could not fathom, or never dared to.
There is something comforting about the stars. The sun, so gaudy and bright and overwhelming, seems so blinding and unyielding in comparison with the soft twinkle of light that is millions of years old.
I am most confident in the middle of the night.
My goals and my dreams lay spread out around me, each visible and tangible and real, if only just out of my reach. No one to snatch them from the canvas of my mind, to pull them apart and toss them at the feet of practicality.
I love the night.
The only danger is that of the impending dawn, where light casts doubt on all of my best laid plans, where others are awake and opinionated and all too ready to drag me down from the heavens.
There is no stopping the onslaught of day. The sun of everyday life and nine-to-five jobs will shove its way into the scene, obliterating the stars and my dreams along with them.
But every night, the stars return. Every night, they slowly and cautiously take the stage before the cosmos and dare to wheel and dance across the sky, shining resolutely into the curtains of black.
Dare I join them?