Once, years ago, when I was walking home–bulldozing my way actually, walking feet splayed and unfeminine. I had been out treading the mill far too many hours for too many weeks; the cycle was due to repeat the next day, and all I wanted was to cut the travelling, and just be home, to be quiet and alone, to rest.
I was walking the usual straight path toward my block, and in my line of vision was the moon- low, bright, effervescently yellow. It hung there in the black sky, a challenge to all my anxieties, a mirror to my daily poverty. Staring at it seemed a direct gaze into all I wanted and was far from. But it calmed and centred me.
It must have been about 11pm that night, a limbo time when the dark land turns its people to an empty slumberland, when the last frenetic energies of the day still cling in the last puttering vehicles, in the worn thoughts of tired daily beings.
I still look out for it during the full moon phase.
What is the cure for a self-inflicted heartache? Or an ache leftover from a non-decision.
A phantom yearning- no one deserves any sympathy for that.