I went for a walk instead, under the full moon. It was almost directly overhead and cast a shadow from just over my left shoulder. My moon shadow.
In the middle of a field in the middle of a small town, it was still just me and the moon, and every time I broke the tether of that gaze, everything fell. From the sky to the earth, the line was more abrupt than ever before, and I couldn’t tell whether suddenly my brain had disengaged from all but my eyes, or maybe that I was too much a part of myself.
So the discombobulation is still strong. I think my journal got the best of my observations, but I’m avoiding light at the moment, except the screen, and I’d turn it off if I could.
And yet I should be writing my novel too. If only my brain hadn’t decided on sleep.
Still, you should walk under the moon, in the quiet. If you have a space without the light pollution of cities. Much as I want to leave here, going back to the places without stars terrifies my at the most visceral. Even the dusk lingered, hours after sunset. O, but there are no words, even where there should be.
I will never call myself a writer.
But starting Thursday, you’ll get my ideas. My opinions, let me show you them. Thursday.