There’s a moment before dawn when the moon still hangs, faint, an echo of what has already passed.
This has always filled me with a sort of unknown dread and inexplicable pleasure.
To see something exist beyond its function. Out of place, out of time. Defiant, stubborn in the staying.
To serve no purpose, and to know and acknowledge this, the futility.
When you don’t know why you’re here, you stay.
And yet, to look up and see it fading already. As though nothing, in the end, escapes the narrative. assigned to it.
There is no escaping this.
I slink downstairs after the world has fallen asleep. To watch, with held breath, as the world moves around me.
Placed on moonshine, the clouds are dust and trail across the surface of the skies, undeniably curved.
On days like these, I feel as though everything I see must fit into a glass sphere the size of a hand.
The mountains can only be fingers and the earth is a wrinkled palm. I sit here contemplating the plausibility of this theory, which delights me.
Convinced that if I looked hard enough, long enough, I would see two dark orbs staring down, a low shadow burning in the back of these eyes.
Midnight, I listen to the sound of my voice returning home.
I ask my suspicions. I say nothing. I live against my will.
After everything, I must love and I must eat.
I write: to be held is ultimately to be trapped. To be watched is always to be judged. Names must be reckoned with.
There’s no escaping this.
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