We are just moments, just fragments.
Just some small crumbs in a world we don’t fully understand, and from which we can only feel what we touch.
We float immutably in a sticky liquid, in which we usually feel fear, and from time to time we tangentially pass each other or an object that we have not seen, but which doesn’t scare us a lot. And we stick to it, we’re hiding there scared, and we are building a world. The world of each of us. We do not see too much beyond it.
And this blue moon looks at me hostilely, from one side. We know each other well, the moon and me, sometimes we look defiantly to each other. Each of us on their terrace. And we keep our eyes off each other sometimes. One has eyes too charged with light and glory, that is the moon, the other has her eyes full of memories. I mean myself.
It somehow resembles the bulb hanging on the top of the streetlights that light up my alley. It’s also the bulb, somehow solidarily with the moon. The bulb just does not have the light to offer. The bulb only lights up because it has to do it. It is disoriented, a wanderer, a stateless one that somehow got in my garden.
I look at it with mercy and aversion.
To shine only from inertia !? What a loss! Don’t ever rebel… to meet your days and nights in immeasurable sadness!