hold my hand [w.s]

oh, moon [005]

The seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days, weeks, months.. They all melted and dissolved into each other. They morphed one big, disgusting lump of emptiness and void. It wasn't pleasant - in fact it was quite far from pleasant.

It was horrible. It was horrible to sit alone in that quiet, cold, rundown little apartment he'd been confined to. It was horrible to get out of his room for the small inconvenience of having to live his life. Having to live alone.

Oh, the days with roommates - how nice they were. How wonderful it was to wake up early - just in time for the beautifully amateur presentation of eggs and toast. And even on those warm, breezy Sundays when everyone let themselves sleep in a little too much, even when the sun was too high in the sky for it to be classified as breakfast, they ate together.

Each day passed, back then, like a butterfly fluttering through the misted sky. Each flap left an imprint in the swirling air, each twitch giving a world of mist the tiniest, most splendid details. It was always moving too. It was always changing and twisting away in its own little daze of bliss, dreaming of bigger clouds and distant horizons of rain.

Wasn't it a shame, then, that the butterfly rested? As much as we hope and wish and pray for this small insect to just spread its wings and bring us back the small particulars that coddle our world together perfectly, as much as we want the rest to be over; it simply, sometimes, isn't possible.

Let the butterfly rest.

That's what he would tell himself. Each day without the whirlpool of mist, each day without the small moments of felicity, he would hold himself by the arms and tell himself that the butterfly was resting. That she was tired from flying and was simply taking a break.

But the break was too long for him. Because as each moment went by, as each torturing day heaved itself to the next, he began to lose himself. He began to lose any sense of worth to all these details so carefully provided to him. Each friend he'd collected along his journey of life moved out of his chilling home, moved out from his frozen life.

He wished for them to return. And he knew maybe he was wishing for too much, and he knew the wishes weren't likely to be answered. Yet he wished.

As childish as it may come across, many nights he'd find himself staring out into the empty sky. Searching, searching, searching, yet he was clueless as to what he was searching for. There were no answers in the clouds. There were no whispers of hope amongst the stars, and the moon was simply too far away to give coherent responses to the mumbled secrets.

Though he sat alone anyway. He sat alone full of want, full of wishes and secrets untold. Full of love he simply couldn't express. Not fast enough, anyway.

Maybe, he thought to himself on one of those many, many dreaded nights, Maybe I am being greedy. Maybe I really am asking for too much.

It was that sort of night then, he supposed. It was the sort of night where you simply cannot force yourself to think straight and your hands simply cannot sit still and your lips begin to tremble with unspoken words. One of those nights in which you cannot hold back from speaking your frustrations to the moon.

It was funny. It was funny how all those days ago, when his world was sturdy and true, he would think babbling mindlessly to the moon would be such a silly, nonsensical idea. The moon, of course, couldn't listen to the struggles of some lonely American. The moon, of course, couldn't babble back or give advice or answers to any curious questions. It was the moon, after all.

Yet.. There he sat. There he pondered and waited and sighed. There he leant against the windowsill, trying to breathe with the breeze and blink with the stars. Trying, so desperately, to synchronise his heartbeats to those of the distant thundering rumbles of yesterdays promises. The rumbles of tomorrows wishes, and the rumbles of today's dread.