How lovely the moon in times of loneliness. How comforting
the swollen moon, bright and bare, floating in the deep dark pond as if it knew
how not to drown, resisting being swallowed by the black vortex, always with
poise and glory. Should I know how, too? Should I know how to be beautiful when
the face of pain looks its worse? Or do your craters, gray like ash, resemble
millenniums of learning how to cope? Should I know how not to be swallowed by
deplorable loneliness, or does it swallow you too? Does it swallow you little
by little? Full, half, crescent, full –
should I know how to be full again, too? Should I have known not to rely on
those that made me think I could rely, or did you think you could too when that
star sat next to you last week, and when the clouds hugged you last night? Did
you know they wouldn’t tonight? Should I have known that too? Should I have
known that loneliness is more devout and faithful than friendship, and that,
although it sometimes strays… sometimes… it never forgets its way home? Should
I have known that I would have to shine despite there being no one’s path to
pave? Like those that were guided by your light tonight, but didn’t stop to
look whose light they followed. Should I know how, too?
No one stopped to look at the moon that night. She felt an
irresistible urge to stop the next passerby and say “look at the moon,” but
would they understand? And more importantly, would she have the courage? She
smoked her cigarette, as her eyes tried to penetrate the copper outline of her
lonely companion. She reveled so deeply in her thoughts that they bounced from
the walls of her mind, forming rippling echoes of hollow noise. “Loneliness,
loneliness, loneliness” they whispered. The moon seemed to muster an ancient
tune, an ancient thunder. Her heart pounded like drums, the wind fueled the
embers of centuries, and blew the flutes of gypsies.
“Loneliness,” she thought.
“Strength,” mustered the moon.
