22.04.2020
As the dark descends, so too the peculiar melancholia. The swinging weight of this manic month drawling to a close. Neither our singular selves nor their many shadows desire the dance, as the dark moon draws the buried truth out into the barely there twilight. We stare blankly at its mass on the floor. The air is languid and heavily pregnant with transition, almost a day's labour away.
The dark moon is the lunar crone, a domain favoured by the fearsome and fearless. The crone is all seeing and all knowing. She has lived all the stages and phases and ages. She carries the distinct experience of each. Having had her time in the light she now rests in the dark as prelude to her next transformation, plucking wisdom from the inky middle distance. Her melancholic nostalgia is offset by a steely glint. She knows the answers lie in the creases and the cracks.
All her movements are slow and deliberate. Her measure is exact and unflinching. Time passes in strange fashion, as it must at the end of long life. The sun flares and earth's heartbeat spikes. We all take the hit, our heads heavy with the buzzing as our nervous systems shudder at the fresh overload. Pluto's chaos gouging a deeper channel as he grinds towards his halt and reverse. The weight of it all tugging at our tear ducts as the urge to purge battles the statue of our aching hearts.
Peer into my rheumy eyes, child. Chase answers to the questions you won't ask on sunny days. Let the cobwebs stitch a template into your skin so your weaving follows. Hunt in the darkness so you may feast in the light.
Image of Miss Havisham from from Great Expectations, 1946