My dark garage is illuminated by two things—the headlight of my motorcycle, and for a second, the glow of my phone screen as I check the time. 10:32. A great time for a night ride. Perfect time to become invisible.

I wear a pitch black suit—black boots, black clothes, black bike. The only color is from my headlight.

I drive east, through the soupy night—unnoticed by the rest of the world. The cars sometimes don’t even notice me. People wouldn’t enjoy it very much. But I do.

Eventually, the night gives way to man. Invisibility lets me see a side of the city most don’t: The lack of noise, how calm the streets are, how big the buildings are, how small one person can be.

Smallness is one aspect, invisibility is another. I’m a phantom to police, pedestrians, traffic lights. It gives me the power to be myself. Thinking, dreaming, singing old songs into my helmet. For a while, late at night, personal freedom is my invisibility.

I make my way home at some point. It doesn’t matter where I go, or how long it takes. Invisibility shields me from race, gender, defining traits. Bad neighborhoods, rich neighborhoods, country roads. The night—the invisibility—gives me freedom.

Pulling into my town, and sighing deeply, I wish for more night—for more thoughts, more dreams, more freedom, more invisibility. But none of it comes.

My bike dies while I check the time. 1:15 am. Shedding my darkness, I become visible again. I go to my bed—and fall asleep happy. Happy the ride was perfect—happy I was invisible for a night.