Inconstant Moon

What follows is the effect of listening to the songs of a certain singer/watching some kind of movie/eating some kind of food/drinking some kind of beverage (or having too many windows open. Hah, Turnbaby!). Or all of the above. :-D [Blogworld Saturday later, okay? Much later. next week. Sorry!]

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"O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable."
-William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet


Confronted with her own thoughts that bother her when she's alone, she found herself looking at some things in ways she never thought she would.

Take the moon for example. She found pleasure in the enigmatic moonlight that bathed the night sky, creating the most intriguing shadows. In her mind's eye, she thought perhaps the day's sunshine was as bright and joyful as it was because it couldn't help but be influenced by the low-key yet luminous presence of the moon. The sun and the moon, the yin and yang, sometimes they seemed to come together, and people gathered to watch that most enthralling sight. There was something magical about two beings millions of miles distant from each other, yet seeming to occupy the same sky. Together, yet apart. She wondered, does one ever miss the other?

But tonight the normally playful and ever-present moonbeam wasn't there. She knew he was there somewhere, but she didn't feel him. Perhaps he was hiding behind the clouds? Perhaps. It pained her to think that he was apparently unaffected by how much she had come to rely on his brilliance. She wished it didn't matter, she wished she didn't need his reassuring presence, and she wondered why she still cared. But she did, it did, she did. If she didn't love him, would he know? Would he even care?

An awful, illogical thought emerged. What if he was purposely hiding behind the clouds, laughing at her misery? Gloating in his total mastery of her sky? Was there anything to get him off his fucking throne?

And, perish the idea... but what if the moon was indifferent to her? Another thought entered her mind, hurting her even more: maybe it wasn't indifferent to her after all. Maybe the moon did appreciate her appreciating it; but that, despite her most fervent (and misguided) belief, maybe the moonbeams it shone upon her weren't any different from or any more special than those it bestowed upon everybody else. And perhaps because of that despairing thought, the sun couldn't help but shine a bit less brightly. Could she be blamed for what she felt? Perhaps, perhaps not.

Comfortable as she tried to tell herself she was (and perhaps as the moon was), her wishes of being just a little bit stronger, a little bit wiser, and a little less needy still left a bittersweet taste on her tongue and in her heart.

All she knew was she was missing the moon terribly tonight, there was no denying that. But for the first time -- and it didn't matter if the changes perceived were real or imagined -- she couldn't for the life of her tell whether the hurtful hate tormenting her outweighed the love.