Blue Moon
Full moon diary #6
I’m drunk on the moon. Carrying old books I found in a box on the side of the road and stopping between chimneys to soak in its yellow glow. I’m floating down the pavement, a laugh caught in my throat, on my way home from a divination session at Mary’s. All the Tarot and oracle decks were called upon to quell our perpetual uncertainty. The same uncertainty we’ve been cycling through since we were listening to Pierce the Veil for the first time on the train to West Kirby in year 10, but with different shapes and patterns, and more severity, because – as Mary whispered, ginger hair splayed out on the carpet beneath her head – we’re older now.
It all felt so real as I thought my way along the route from her house to mine, just as it did when I woke up sweating under my winter duvet this morning. But then I saw the moon, sitting there waiting for me just before I turned right onto Russell’s Footpath, its full, luminous body beckoning some kind of audible gasp, and then a smile.
I’m getting better at that. Making noise. Letting rogue sighs drip from my mouth and watching the vibrations dance along the airwaves in front of me. I started doing it after a guided meditation in Valencia, the woman guiding us encouraged long aaaahhhhhs on the exhale. Aaaaahhhh. Or I let out tender moans and groans, whenever my body wants to. Well, sometimes. When I am not wrapped in one of my bullshit thought patterns. Or someone else’s.
I stopped there for a moment, at the top of the footpath, and there it was: the urge to write. I have lost it, you know, the will to write. The will to “succeed” in this ridiculous industry, whatever that even means. People tell me not to give up but I think that is bullshit too. Their bullshit.
Like clockwork: the full moon, menstruation, release. Aaaaahhhh. Blood coursing out of me as I scoop up beetroot with injera in Brixton Market. Mary’s perfect face gazing back at mine, handing me my birthday presents. Two pendants and my essence captured in pastel. Blue like the moon.
I’m watching my shadow, watching the curves of my body in motion. Sensual. My arms are raised above my head like a mad woman and I’m carrying those old dusty books and laughing and nothing is real, only right now.
Follow Mary
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