Monday, August 27, 2007

Lunar Eclipse

I have not written here in a week. Oh, I've written. I am almost always writing, even when I have writer's speedhump, I am writing something or other. Indeed, last week I wrote a ‘started out 2500 ended up being 4200 word' story, a few partial poems, some short essays and sundry others. In fact tonight, home from class, I did a first draft of an assignment due in three weeks.
After doing some other research, studying and contemplating my future as if it were a navel orange, I intent to watch the moon. My future as seen in an orange. The oracle of Delphi was much more polite and not as lint filled, but an orange is handier. An orange, the lovely, soon to be eclipsed moon, both ridgy spheres. There are tiny depressions, craters in the surface. These craters give you a better grip when you want to hold onto this sphere.
It is the same when you love someone. The imperfections, those tiny ridges, are what you hold close. The imperfections make us each unique. The way we each want to be respected, desired, given credence, loved is what makes us special. And our flaws, so many flaws? To be loved as much despite yourself as because of yourself is what each person wants. We each know our faults, and they are so much larger in our own mind than anywhere else.
Nobody can flagellate us as well as we do, no one. But the beloved will take the whip from my hands, set it aside. Accept the flaws and treasure them as much as the perfections, pressing fingers into those tiny depressions to keep me from drifting away on breath of wind. Fingers are not chains holding me down. They hold me close, tight, but not down. I can feel the wind but not be blown off course by it. The imperfections catch the wind, too, but are not conquered by it. Wind is just wind.
Full moon tonight. I look up and its beauty takes my breath away. If it were perfect, a smooth glass orb, it would not be as lovely. I can stare for hours at this moon, the shadows, ridges, its cycle of new to full and back again. Never the same, but still the same. Loved for being itself. What else can it be except itself? What else can I be except me?

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