the red moon
Red plays and indefinite factor in human livelihood: situationally beneficial and inconceivably loud. It’s almost a volcanic rush that surges into every neuron of our body. In the past few months, I’ve passed the red moon multiple times. Consuming, with percentiles counting, it’s easier to cascade into words when all values become minuscule. As if things just return to goals, checkpoints rather than an astounding ideology. Somehow, I’ve always been the type to narrate something when it no longer harbors the overwhelming surge within me.
Learning to love and hurt deeply at the same time is a lesson. A gift to anyone who lives in the past. If we all lived between the choice acting as dead or an adult: which one would you pick. In my head, I think that relationships and people pass through like ever-bloom. Sunflowers in the late summer, under shards of shattered glass within a heated humid room reflected by white bedsheets that has the big jarring red cross painfully carved right in the heart. I looked through a songbird’s eyes who could not flutter at the heated summer. I couldn’t bring the courage to tell her that I had a dream around noon today about her under the red moon: she sat down with me at a diner, the interior was blue. Each time I blinked, the blue seems to grow on to her:
“My hands are getting stiff and my head hurts” I didn’t react well.
“My ankles are aching and I can’t move” I tried to comfort her.
“I am having trouble breathing and my lips are turning blue.”
Not just her lips actually, as she aged backwards into my childhood, her entire self began to fade into polaroids of a deep deep shade of blue. Until I didn’t need to stay at the diner any longer. I woke up.
While we are on the topic of red, it’s my thoughts most of the time because I don’t think anyone who seeks them quite understand. I think it’s alright to live with anger, resentment and finding the courage to face these truthful ugly human-like feelings that people nowadays try so hard to stay non-confrontational from. Breath a little bit, please, song bird. Stop pretending to be non-human, an detached form leads to the build up of every little thing that if the red moon saw would only jester at its minuscule matter.
If you can’t find the heart to forgive your own mundanity, you cannot keep anyone.
But it’s the red moon that remains, glowing ominously in the background, casting its shadow over everything I try to forget. I’ve wondered, on nights when sleep is elusive and thoughts spiral inward, what it is about that scene that won’t let me go. It’s not just her fading presence or the words left unsaid, but something more primal, a reminder that the red moon never really leaves. It lingers, watching, waiting for me to confront the parts of myself I’d rather keep hidden. She’s the quiet moments, when the facade slips, I’m left grappling with the reality that I’m still that child, standing under a sky painted crimson, wondering why the world burns and why I can’t seem to find solace in its ashes. And it’s in those moments, staring up at the ceiling as the red moon’s glow fills my mind, that I realize the fear isn’t in the anger or the sadness, but in the acceptance. The acceptance that maybe this is who I am—a kaleidoscope of rage and sorrow, each piece reflecting back the parts of me I’ve tried to bury.
For every dream where I can’t quite reach her, where the diner walls close in and I wake with a sense of loss, there’s a waking moment where I choose to stay open, to let each day unfold as it will.
I’m getting tired of saying the obvious as we reach the end of the blog so there will be no more “That’s all for today folks.” As always, have a good day.
