we’re moon dwellers, little darling.
“Woman is the most superstitious animal beneath the moon. When a woman has a premonition that Tuesday will be a disaster, to which a man pays no heed, he will very likely lose his fortune then. This is not meant to be an occult or mystic remark. The female body is a vessel, and the universe drops its secrets into her far more quickly than it communicates them to the male.” ― Edward Dahlberg
It’s been a long time, little darling, hasn’t it? Or perhaps no time has passed at all.
Since the last time you felt that rush of heat, that pang of discontent. We’re conflicted today, little darling. Changing like the moon.
Words are stuck somewhere between your frantic beats and this paralyzed tongue; in-the-moment was never our strength. No.
Time to feel every little inch of what went so terribly wrong; rehearse the should-have-saids one by one. Time to hold the space again, open wide to the walls and listen as they retell the story of what happened here today.
We were lost again—spinningdancingdrifting—in a sacred space called happiness.
And that’s where circumstances went awry. Strange, I know.
But sometimes, when we relish the view from above, when we disappear for too long, we forget that there are others waiting. They stand on the surface of the planet, hanging hopes on our imminent descent. They check their invisible watches and gauge hours with the enduring reach of the sun.
The sun. The tattletale—he’s got tick-tock-tick-tock in his veins. Rays that stretch to forever, findingsnoopingseeking.
It’s why we’ve always loved the moon; she won’t spoil moments with matters of time-keeping. Won’t cast shadows across perfectly-imperfect moments. She would never dare burn. With her, the hours, they drift—but without consequence, without ugly retribution. Because night is night. The wrap of darkness: a constant in this ever-expanding space.
From our moon-dwelling seats we wait—fornothing.forsomething.foranything.
And while our rumps fill little craters, we change.
We grow impatient, coming quickly back to Earth; other times we sit peaceful, losing all working memory of the ‘real’ that waits below; in other moments still, we dance among the stars and allow our fingers and toes to reach to every untouchable corner of the universe—until we detach, limb by limb, laughing because everything’s amazing. So fucking amazing is this diamond-encrusted universe.
Because of that, it’s hard to hang hopes on us, little darling. We’re inconstant like our beloved moon.
But when we’re spilt wide open, the shimmering dust has time to settle in. And you’re coated in star-stuff as you beat with micro-tides, happy disruptions of a lunar pull.
It is in those moments that we are most alive.
We are mutable, little darling. Bliss can be torn away; because of this, we must garner those moments, however poorly-timed.
We’re a child of the universe—a dreamer who hangs hopes, like prayer flags, too. Only ours are draped across constellations.
It’s not the same for those who stay behind, we must face this. They may surf with technology, take flight with their machines, but they’ll never witness the glittering void beyond the safety of their little planet, they’ll never pass beyond her womb.
So don’t worry, little darling, should-have-saids can’t reach you in this vacuum. And stardust washes away terrible things.
Rest easy, for we’re moon dwellers—we’re exactly where we need to be. They can’t accuse us of having our head in the clouds when we’re eye-to-eye with the stars.