Fly up to the Moon and say hello

In your certain kind of sadness, in those unforgiving moments that you have revelled in, with these lights that are dimming later and slower, there is a reminiscent ray of hope. Things change you whisper, they change and there is time and power, there is almost an ardent desire for want, for circumstance to cease its happenstance and become lucid and controllable. A choice, a distant but clear, luminescent choice. Before summer set foot I heard you vow that you would latch onto these changing times, that you would grab the tailcoats of these hurried winds that toss and stir the still waters of contrariety. I stood on the icy shore and waited to see. The water barely came up to greet me, the sun already melted the frozen leaves of unsuspecting plants that leaned too close to the water, the spring breeze was unkind, but I waited. Waited to watch you surface.  

Your lungs filled with fresh air, your hair scruffy from the long flight that you have already taken, there you went roaming endlessly. Took what you needed, just what you needed. There were notes and there were rhymes, there were memories of lovers and scars from friends who turned enemies or enemies who turned friends. There was a glint in your eyes as you waved to me standing on the shore. You knew I would be there when you returned, waiting with such loyalty. Waiting with such love. Your heart boasted with more confidence than that flying balloon could take. If it was filled with helium or just your wonderful imagination, it flew with more speed than the eyes could follow. Soon you were a distant figure, just a spot in the sky, just a thought in the heart hoping to see you return. 

 

These lands are wondrous, unthinkable. The faces are gleaming, the strangers are long lost friends on the outside, but true strangers on the inside. The houses stand on their roofs, the doors are windows and the windows are doors. There are horses that run backwards, there are singers who cannot sing. This is what you told me of your journey. There are lovers without anyone to love and there are writers without anything to write. The skies are turning from orange to blue to red to green. The winds carry not scents but memories, objects and people from the past. Everyone says hello when they leave and bid farewell when they greet. The mirrors reflect the imagination, the pens write what the heart thinks. Each word is carefully selected, none are allowed to hurt. Fruits move to a beating rhythm, nobody works to destroy one-another. The sun takes votes for how long to shine. Sometimes the days are long, some other times they are very short. Hammocks provide for regular beds, the seas quiet when the sun sets. Everyone cheers the painter who cannot paint, the singer who cannot sing, the writer without anything to write. They say inspiration is time’s prisoner, until set free the host is merely a shell. So they wait for the painter’s luck to return to his brush. Listen to the singer’s out of tune hum until the melody comes rushing back. They read empty pages until the writer’s pen is yet again filled with ink. Days pass in peace, each takes to their own. Waterfalls can suddenly stop and trees grow to screaming heights overnight. Nothing seems impossible - in this land only wishing to stay infinitely cannot come true.  

In your certain kind of sadness there is a hopeful streak of lightly filled memories. See how quickly summer has replaced winter? You join me on the shore, take your travelling boots, your dusty jacket off. Then your hair grown long from the impossible journey rests on the velvet grass. You begin the story of how you went up to the moon. How you went up to the moon all alone. Slowly you start to believe that nothing was ever going to stop you. I listen intently, show you these days are changing. The notes are finding their songs, the words are finding their page. You are finding yourself and on this shore we will wait for the good people to find what to really see, hear and read. In these confusing times who to really be.