Hung the Moon

Captive to my non-cooperating body, I grieve the sun’s rise each day. She holds a powerful sway over my nerves and muscles. I do not take it personally. She needs a certain amount of life force to keep her furnaces burning on high. Perhaps I should feel flattered. I am a chosen one of sorts. She saps my powers like a thirsty woman in a desert. It leaves me reading road signs with no way to follow the course. My body’s protections stripped, all for her purposes, giving away my energy to light the day, like it does not cost her anything. She is the center of the solar system, after all. Who am I to make a fuss?

Lying in my bed every night, I anticipate the return of my faculties with a mixture of joy and relief. Tonight when I close my eyes and drift away, like every other night, I am returned to myself. The moon is winning her daily tug of war with her celestial rival. Why does the moon choose me for this nightly restoration? Perhaps it’s pity. Perhaps I won a lottery I never entered.

Beginning with a laugh I articulate every word I have needed and saved in silence throughout my day, really gauging my night’s audience for what should come next. Can tonight’s dream companion lead me through a tango? A round of orchestral movements? A tennis match? A verbal sparring with a dreamland adversary? And so goes the night under the watchful gaze of my moon guardian. A messier reality awaits me when day breaks; a reality of spills, fumbles, and weird noises. The moon allows me agility, grace, and a voice.

The sun always wins in the end. The darkness recedes, the moon retreats, and I awaken. I will pick up the moon’s sword and shield for the day while it is her time to regroup, fumbling, spilling, and saving my words for tonight.

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