Wednesday, January 11, 2012

January 11, 2012

I see the moon from my office window—every morning I see it; sheltered by the tower of the old English Gothic style cathedral across my office. I see it first thing when I come in and when I sit down at my desk and turn my head towards the gloominess outside. I see it spreading out shadows—scurried ghosts of the early morning, as it shines down faintly illuminating the earth.

I see the moon silently watching me from where she stands; mysterious and enchanting, and sometimes I’m sure I can also hear it whispering secrets—perhaps the whispers lovers everywhere hear?—furtive words I cannot fully comprehend; yet, I’m mystified by them. My soul rendered dreamy.

Another turn of my head and the anatomy of the skies had already shifted; the moon seems less bright now; perhaps less pompous, like a ballerina that knowing she’s past her prime must surrender her dreams to the inexorable wheels of time. So quickly it takes place—this miracle, this intertwining of night and day, of moon and sun; silvery light softly fading into nothingness. Where does it go?—the moon. To what unseen dwelling behind the tower of the old church it disappears to?

And the firmament is still the dancing floor where she glides and dances a last dance to the tune of the early dawn: Her mortuary song. A strange, and sweet and natural symphony.

The hour before dawn: Nature in its awe, expelling measures of darkness and light to inhabit me, and blend with me.

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