Downtempo to me is like early dark. In the words of Jeanette Winterton: “It’s not night. It’s not companionable. No one feels afraid to walk by themselves without a lantern… Real dark is thicker and quieter, it fills up the space between your jacket and your heart. It gets in your eyes.”
Early dark, like downtempo, will not blind you, if you wish to understand it. It spills out onto the streets in the wake of sunbeams and moves in ways lost on the days. Dances on rooftops and floats on still waters, leaving in its wake shadows and empty alleyways. A guiding light, a milky compass for the shipwrecked. A charmer of the tides, a shapeshifter, a teacher, a teller of time, a friendly face. A night light for insomniacs, or perhaps the reason they stir. A chance for werewolves to find themselves, or perhaps a reminder of what they once were. It moves in ways lost on the haze of the polluted skies that dull her shine or those who turn away when she flashes her smile. A stain in the abyss. The lunatics shall blame her for crime, lost time and bootlegs amiss. Some say the light is blinding, the beats take up too much space. Unpredictable, imperceptible, it moves at its own pace. Unfretted by the clouds in her way or the stars in her orbit that shine brighter. Laughs in the face of non believers and skeptics alike for light harnesses a power immeasurable by size. A gravity unfaltering, let them eclipse if they must. For somewhere out there are tides with arms outstretched, or lovers who go by the name of night yearning for respite from mourning the morning light.