rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

March Moon

This winter's last full moon is casting a tracery of twigs and branches on my window. By the next full moon, the tree will be covered in leaves. After that, not until late in the year will I be able to see this room washed in soft moonlight, so bright that it reflects from the floor and the east wall to faintly illuminate the ceiling, draining away both darkness and color, turning the familiar space to a mysterious monochromatic gallery of unexpected shapes. I like to lie on the floor with my head in shadow, not to be dazzled by the direct light, and imagine what things might seem had I never been here before. The hutch bookcase might be the top of an upright piano. The glass shade of the lamp in the corner is the shape of a helmet, or perhaps of a bust of some artist or composer. The open door of the closet could be the entrance to a darkened room of vast proportions; the clothes hanging in it, drapes over distant windows; the pale white of the pillows on the top shelf, a high ceiling hung with darkened chandeliers.

As a very small child, I would lie in bed on moonlit nights such as this and imagine cites and landscapes in the indistinct shapes around me. Except for rare occasions when I was fevered, I don't recall ever seeing monsters in those shapes and shadows, even on those nights when my older sister had told me some terrifying story, which was one of her favorite pastimes. For me, the monsters were always concealed in hidden places -- the closet, the bathroom, some other part of the house, or lurking outside the window. But the shadows within the room held no dangers. They were only shadows, defining the magical light around them.

On moonless nights, when the room was all darkness, and undefined, it would open out in my imagination to threatening distances where unimaginable horrors awaited. Then, I would hide under the covers and wait to be slaughtered, or to fall asleep. I would try to remember the gentle moonlight and its magic, as though even the thought of it would act as a talisman, protecting me from the unknown threats around me. I think it was the memory of the moon which carried me to sleep those nights. But it was only the true light of the moon itself that brought me genuine repose. It remains my favorite form of light, even now.

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