The moon blooms, unfurling in the night sky as though it only now had realized that the clouds already gave way to it's brilliant pride. It is a kind of solitary moon, hung apart in the lightless sky, beholden to no-one in a luminous silence. I will stand in my own reverie and watch, as though witnessing a precious secret unearthing and unearthly and wear upon my cold cheeks the cloaked indifference of night. 


These days my words fail me, my blog untended, left to it's own porous spaces. There are days I feel I have used up all the words, that my thoughts need to be stripped of their adornments and left to bake into the bones of meaning, in a desert of silence. 

There are days I sit with a document open, fingers trembling above the keys, unable to spin these heaps of woolen thoughts into something of value, something that speaks to delicate truth, to formed beauty, to art as meaning. 

There are days I stumble on the keys of my piano and wonder if I write the same song again and again, wonder if all the words have been said, if all the notes have been sung, if I become my own rhetoric. 

Tonight though, the moon is an invitation to empty myself, to let go of these precious expectations that drive and bind. I am as moon, waxing and waning, coming to fruition and decaying into nothing. It is not so much the moment but the cycle. It is not so much finding the words, the notes, the songs within, but rather letting them go.

 

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