I drove into moonlight the other night. It stared at me, all yellow and wide-eyed and muddy with shadows.
I guess I understand why the moon makes creatures wild, and why men turn to wolves in the folklore at the fall of the dusk. You remember how I talked about wanting to get out of here, in a sort of picturesque, untamed post? It coaxed that out of me.
I came home and wrote in my journal in the darkest ink I found. I was brimming with confidence, a smirk on my lips.
A full moon speaks to the power in people. It cradled my soul for a moment, then set me on my feet and patted my backside to have me scoot along and do what I please. It spoke to the electricity in me. It felt like I lost my mind. I almost kept driving.
I avoided the moon at first, thinking it probably best. And then I surrendered. Then I thought, “probably best to keep me away from scissors, saws, and fire.” If I had those things, and some courage, I probably would have cut my ties and burned my bridges. I probably would have kept driving.
I know there are people like me, but I haven’t met many, if any. I want to.
It’s like my body is a glass cage, and entrapped within it is my soul: a shape-shifter, riding its horns to the panes trying to break free, scratching its claws, nipping, crying, trying tirelessly to slip through the tiniest cracks. To no avail.
And this town is the zoo in which my glass case body resides. And people walk by and my soul sits in the corner, holding her fire close, just observing, planning here route.
But when the night is cold and dark and the crowd dissolves into themselves in bathroom mirrors and Lazyboy recliners and cell phones, losing themselves in mindless game shows and false pretenses of how life is “supposed” to be, she plans her escape.
She wants to leave everyone chasing their tails. She wants to set out on a lonesome adventure, seeking only the company of the moon and her daughters. And gypsy souls. She wants to find ones like herself. A company that won’t judge or accuse or falsely try to rectify.
In the days, when I’m occupied, I feel okay. Sometimes I even feel well.
But in the silence, when I’m listening to my thoughts, they tell me the same thing. And when my mind is quiet and my soul is speaking in that way she does, all humbly and gently and without dialogue, she wants the same. And my heart beats at the thought of it.
Most of me wants the same thing. My head, my heart, my soul – they agree.
But there’s something else inside me that is keeping me. I can’t tell if it’s poison, a fungus wrapped around me like netting, or a calling I’ve never heard.
In the long haul, I suppose, time will tell.
All we can do is our best, isn’t that right?