There was no light, no bright, not a small glimpse of what she ever expected to see. With a sigh, and no memory of the way back, she dove into darkness - and there, by finally embracing it, she suddenly was able to see the light she longed for, gloriously glowing out of herself.
… For there is no space, in earth water or skies, that can ever fullfill the undreamed.
Tales from the old days, and the new too.
You're welcome anytime.
I will be taken home by the melodies of old, those I had almost forgotten. My path seemed so ready, drawn before me, and only now I see the lies. Only now I see the misleadings my own beliefs had brought me; Me, oh mother, me! The one with all the answers.
So the path is lost, and I’m just a man in the rain, And I fear, I fear, I fear Something I can’t remember anymore.
My only hope, my dream not broken, those melodies of old. The songs I have sang without knowing, Flowing from me, flowing from the wind, The words that were always part of myself. No longer I know where I heard them, No longer I know where they come from.
So the path is lost, and I’m just a man in the rain, And I fear, I fear, for the life of me, Something I can’t remember anymore.
Me, oh mother, me! King of the silver ways. The one with all maps and guides, The one with all the stories. The one that walked through hidden valleys. Oh, lord of paths, what a deception! I had woven my own lies.
So the path is lost, and I’m just a man in the rain, And I fear, I fear, as if these were my last days, Something I can’t remember anymore.
I have walked through secret gardens, Valleys of thunder and joy, Valleys of high sun and death. I know these ways, I remember their stories, I know their tales, I know these voices. They all belong to me.
Maybe the path is never lost, but I am just a man in the rain – And I fear, I fear, at all seconds of all days, Something I won’t remember anymore.
Mother, oh mother, I was born from the winds. I will be taken home, even though I have none, For my home, melodies of old, Has always been in my steps.
It feels like a cold agitation, ice burning deep inside into core and void. It comes. It surfaces.
It’s so ancient, such a part of self in itself. Travels from times immemorial; morphing into saints and monsters, angels and demons, beauty and lust, pain and… pain. It roars.
It changes and remains the same. It grows – wasn’t it already everywhere? Everything? Every moment of every thought into quiet contemplation of blood. Wasn’t it here all this time, anyway? It stays.
It grows. It is all I see. Becomes illusion and truth. Becomes time and space. Becomes darkness and comfort. Becomes death – Becomes death. It subsides.
Empty flows the time In the inner worlds, through wars and silences I wonder to myself, I wonder How long will it take for all to burst into fire?
You are long lost to the silver lines, And it’s not my fate to follow that now. Maybe ever? Maybe never?
What you might never know, Might never have realised or even seen, Is that my steps are long muted – My face now older. I have not abandoned you, my child: But I must face the dragons alone.
And even though I know hardship comes my way, And that time might be near or far, I can’t listen to all words in the wind. I can’t ever know where the scars will come from, Even though I can understand some of the signs.
I smell it in the storm, That comes to me. (into me?) It brings me fate and brings me hope, Sorrow and pain. Tears in the rain.
I’m much different now, my child. My dance has changed, and so my skin. The masks I choose have now evolved, And their voices scream inside. I have made a mistake, I have tried to drown them – Or at least, pretend I couldn’t listen. And now they call upon me the feared dragon, Hurt by my negligence, Pained by my flaws.
But I still hear the music, I still seek it, and I still feel it. I shall not be taken. My path goes on.
I do miss you, my child. And I have shed countless tears, For the lost words we shared, Now gone and erased. I do miss you. And it pains me that you can hear the echoes.
A ghost of words. Of promises. Of prayers and forgotten moments. Of paintings and violins. A ghost that faced death, and lives in memories and dusted pieces.
It lingers. Is it awaiting? Is it seeking? Is it desiring? … Or is it just watching, hoping to find peace in the arms of the Lord of Time, carried by the wind when the light finds the Paths again?
I pray for this ghost. For its pain. For mine. For the uncertainty. And leave it be. It is where it should be, as all things are.
But the question… that remains in the silence, maybe to never be truly uncovered, always hidden in the deviate ways and blurred lines of the now:
hello, fellow stranger! glad to see you here. feel free to walk around and make yourself at home. or run, as fast as you can. maybe you should run.
moonlight is a strange little place in the mind of a weirdo, materialized in a blog format and updated in a completely non-regular way. it has existed before, in other names and platforms, but now i (the weirdo) decided to give it a proper home, dust off the corners and give the spiders a nice place to live.
so here some of the stories, whispers and thoughts that come and go might be seen under moonlight. and, hopefully, inspire more stories.
also: i deliberately ignore all caps, unless it’s Serious Writing. basically because i’m lazy and like to be informal around my guests, but i guess it will also help a bit for you to identify the Real Content from the snarky comments and (not so) clever notes from yours truly.
enjoy! or run. maybe. and don’t feed the black cats.