The Relentless Recurrence Of The Night

Why is it that we humans don't panic when our world is engulfed by a velveteen darkness with an unflinching regularity every twenty-four hours? Why don't we wonder about the whereabouts of the sun when blackness strikes, slowly and surely like a dull knife slicing through hot butter?
Our ancestors stuffed this acceptance of the night into our blood; day follows night, and night follows day. That became the law of the land, the way of life. Not taking into consideration the scientific explanation of why we must live in blackness for half the day, I think we have accepted these few hours of the night simply as they are the providers of some much needed respite from the unrelenting demands of our daily lives. The night allows us to take off our masks, our costumes, our makeup, our pretenses and to seek comfort in the arms of an anonymity only darkness can give.
Like a heavy thundercloud that regenerates each day, laden with moisture and with concern for the parching earth, night comes to us again and again and again. And it becomes a man's friend to unwind with over whisky, a woman's ear to vent to over fences and through walls, and a poet's parchment to praise their lover and immortalize them upon.