I look out through my window and there are dark clouds caressing a silver moon. My heart beats a bit faster and I travel… I leave, I live on a hilltop. One with the wind, one with the waters, woven with the vines. I grasp at the moon, gracious, soft, round, in bloom. I die a hundred deaths.
I become the little girl on the portrait which’s always hung in the corner. The moon rubs my back, and I, the cat’s. I have lived a hundred lives and the moon still fascinates me. It fills gaps and plays an instrument within. I fill up. In those moments there is nothing more.
How did the world get so beautiful? How do we care for anything else when there is so much to see and love and die in awe for?
In the death that beauty weaves there are new blossoms, they smell of new paths. A sea urchin gets to wed a caterpillar, by heart, by thought, by imagination. I dance naked with the friends I do not touch, I spin into oblivion. Into the light that might not be a light. “This life is a facade.”
