Sometimes I think About Seeing The Moon

I have never been able to see anything since the day I was born. Sometimes I wonder what the things I hear and feel look like. I can’t tell what I put in my mouth, but I have to accept that when I do put it in my mouth it tastes good and gives me the right nutrients to stay alive. I also have to accept that what I put in my mouth had not been left over from many days past, picked up from the ground or food that had been bitten from someone else. When I put on my clothes, I have to accept that I wear appropriate clothes for my gender, of which I think I am male, and current fashion for the time, of which I think is the year two thousand sixteen. When I am escorted to my school, I have to accept that I am brought to the right classroom to the right school to the right teacher. But, the one thing that I truly worry about, is that I have to accept that the person whom cares for all of these tasks will not one day leave me to my own volition. I can do most tasks with the aid of braille and my own ability to touch and with the walking stick I carry with me. But the one thing I can’t account for is being able to have someone always be there for the things where it would deem quite difficult for me to do. And someone who would be there when I have personal troubles. If such a person were to leave me, I would be left blind.

I felt the breeze touch my face like a happy mother caressing her newborn’s face in the dead of night. The pavement below me rung pulses of cold industrialism like the floor of the hospital to a bare foot. I then opened my mouth and took in a waft of cold air, leaving a stale after taste on my tongue, like the taste of a dozen sick. The whistling of dead trees and rustling leaves caught my attention like the beeps of machines never giving you the day of light. The cold night all gathered together with the scent of leaves and materialistic garbage oozing metallic by product like the hallways of busy night. Except, when I heard the faint ocean to my left driving up into the sand and starting an ebb and flow I remember that I am walking on the streets by myself. That feeling gnaws at my chest.

When I walk down the street in the middle of what I hope to be night, by myself, I sometimes talk.

“Are you there?” I received no response of course, but sometimes, I hear back.

“Guess who?” Her voice permeated my entire body, sending me to a realm beyond this mundane world. But then the wind brings me back.

“What?” I answered.

“My hands are on your eyes.” I didn’t feel her touch, nor did I perceive that as anything but inane. I laughed.

“You really have no tact Alice.” Her name was something that I also had to trust. Her name and her voice, her touch and her breath, everything about her was something that I had to trust. I gave her all my unconditional trust, I gave her all of my everything in hopes that I would never have to ever trust. It would simply be there, something that’s a part of me, something to give me way, to give me direction in the path that I cannot see. Things like that, she liked to tell me, were always within the world. Things like the moon were things that people usually did not think about. It is with the sun that we receive sun light, but the moon’s moon light is not something that many people would attribute to anything. Darkness can be created by anything, even I can produce darkness effortlessly. But to create light is something of an idiosyncrasy. Light is important to life as it is important to have light in one’s own path. But not anyone can have or produce this light, and if one can produce light, it is not certain that they will receive light. That’s why sometimes I think about seeing the moon. Sometimes I wish to gaze up and look at the very thing that I hold semblance with. The very thing that seems to radiate a light that cannot be seen. The very thing that holds itself behind the sun, laying silently by its side. And if it’s forgotten, and the sun finds another confidant, then no one will remember the moon.

“Isn’t it fine every once in a while to have some fun?” That was her voice.

“It is.”

“Then don’t worry if I make a tactless joke, it’s all in good fun right?”

“It’s all in good fun until someone starts crying.”

“If someone starts crying because of that then that just means they haven’t accepted fun yet.”

“Have I accepted it yet?”

“Are you crying?” Her voice then faded. It began losing friction and started distancing itself from me. It was as if she let her hands away from my shoulders and began spinning backwards. She was fading from my existence, losing semblance of the light she once gave to me, and then everything became dark again. Everything was silent, with only the sounds of the ocean to my side giving me back to the mundane world. I didn’t like thinking because thinking made too much noise in my head, and my path would get cloudy, lost within words of things that I may not have much juncture to. I didn’t want to lose my way as much as I didn’t want to lose Alice, but eventually I began to lose her voice.

“Are you there?” I asked, towards no one in particular. And just like before, I would hear her, this time she was laughing. She was laughing in the distance as I proceeded forward. She was laughing and I heard another laugh. Presumably those two laughs would converge into waves that split into tops and bottoms. I walked by them, and then I heard her voice.

“Guess who?” Her voice was not directing a question towards me, I knew that, but I answered out loud anyway.

“Its you, Alice.”

“My hands are on your eyes.” But I knew they weren’t. I knew that she would never have her hands on my eyes, because she was the person that brought them away in the first place. She took away everything that hid me from the world, and she brought me back onto the path that I now walk on. Her hands would never be on my eyes, and yet, now that she is gone, it feels like her grasp tightens around me. Her hands before were warm but they are cold now.

“They aren’t, Alice, they really aren’t,” I said.

“My hands are on your eyes.” Her voice was far, but I felt it brush against my ears like needles pricking into my skin. It stung far more than poison and lasted far longer than a scar.

“Your hands are nowhere near me, Alice,” I said in retaliation. I felt her smile creep up against me, her smile that bled into both her cheeks, and threatened me to open my eyes, to see the moon.

“You are anything but fine with the way things are,” she said, “Just close your eyes and let everything crumble around you. Let everything become as if you were the weapon of mass destruction, and watch as everything you ever loved comes falling down on itself. Watch as everything you hate comes kneeling to you.” Her voice slithered into my ears, crept its way into my mind and brought itself onto my path, the only path I could ever walk on. It wrapped itself to every part of my being and threatened to make me a slave to lust. But I had never known lust nor will I ever.

“Will you come now? Will you save yourself from my discretion? Will you not accept anything more from me?” Alice’s voice was much too far for me to answer with my quiet demeanor, but no matter how much I whispered in the wind, she would hear and tighten her grip. She would speak into me from a place where I couldn’t see. She would speak to me from the moon.

“If you keep walking this path, you will find yourself at the end of the world. A place where no one will be able to find you, and a place where you won’t be able to find anyone. A place where the sun sets and the moon rises.”

“Tell me Alice, do you want to see the moon?” Her voice stopped, and I knew that if I asked her strange questions that she would take strange measures to find strange answers towards my brevity. She would ask me to find the moon but mean the sun, but I would never be able to achieve both either way.

“The moon is falling,” she said. Her voice slowly became a wistful memory in the night time. Something that I once was able to find great joy in now became something that lingered in my mind like the moon after it has been overtaken by the sun. Sometimes I wonder whether my existence truly is something that belongs to the mundane world, or whether I simply wander the same street in a prelude to what I once was before. Such thoughts befit the world that I now live in. Such thoughts of seeming fragile longevity was somehow befitting for a person like me. And whenever in my journey I come to this conclusion, I tend to stop and think. I tend to wonder about whether this world will truly crumble before me one day, whether I will even notice, and whether I will feel any of it happen. But such thoughts on such a night as the one I was walking were thoughts set aside in my mind. They were too noisy. The only thought that I allowed to stay were the thoughts of the moon. I have never been able to see anything since the day I was born, but sometimes I think about seeing the moon. And sometimes I do.

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