The Moon, Their Mistress

A single streetlamp in the vast expanse of the Edge; once basking in light, now choking on the dark, in the dark, and with the dark. Here, swung blind and blackening in the moonless air every time I fell asleep. Every time I used my mind to peer back into the past, away from the vast future.

My mind palace had become a starless sky under which I sat alone in the grassy landscape, a small sphere too pitiful to be an asteroid. Soon, as the nights went on, I learned to sit down; with every second that passed by, I waited for her to come.

What tethered me to her? Perhaps the pall of a past world; then again, maybe the lure of her rosy retrospective? What proclaimed benevolent God would sustain such a cursed existence? I pondered for a bit, before I saw her next to me: the Herald, hand reaching out to hold mine. With her other hand, she pointed at the sky and beckoned me to look.

Stretched out in front of me was the event horizon of a black hole; nay, the memorial landscape of Nostalgia, smothered by a sun blackened with the End. Having granted me her knowledge as we sat together, she proclaimed her four gifts specifically tailored for me, she stood up and softly put her palms over my eyes before counting to 10.

Every second that went by, I heard the quiet rushing of waves; the sensation of my body softly drifting away in the currents, and I felt as though I was transported to the other side of the universe. And then she was gone.

The_Entrance_To_The_Ocean_In_Your_Dreams

Now I hear the humming void far below the surface, the pitter-patter of rain above, both served as a foil to each other, the ends of a pendulum. Opening my eyes was a different story. It was much better to drown in the poetry than in the ocean surrounding me, but only for a moment. I awoke to a pitiful structure that could barely be called a boat. Having wasted no time to jump on, I looked around to see only a clear expanse stretching far beyond the horizon.

The second thing I saw was deep blues and dark greys, with a sliver of black to mix it all together. The sky was crying, the bluest blue was on its weary face, emptiness drowned out all the color it had remaining. I realized that moment that the world, too, was sick of its own existence.

Exhausted, I lay down to greet the moon, and it invited me to drown in the melancholy together, not the fragmented poetry of language of the clear waves of the water. No, the bright sun was extinguished, and the stars wandered aimlessly in the eternal space left behind.

With the world darkening, every tear we shed became one where from morning to night we endured ourselves, and we cried for the tomorrow that never came.

Now at the twilight, I've reached my destination: A door at the end of the ocean, the waves converged at the center point like a whirlpool, or a hurricane. The moon gloomed far above, such was the design of the Melancholy; but now I have been taken somewhere new to witness, although I know in the back of my mind that I have always been here.

The Moon, Their Mistress was written by ArcheNegation with critique from Ferrante, Aequilibrium, and ForestIsWatching. The images used in this article are as follows: Night and The entrance to the ocean in your dreams. Various sentences were paraphrased from Darkness by Lord Byron

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A single streetlamp in the vast expanse of the Edge; once basking in light, now choking on the dark, in the dark, and with the dark. Here, swung blind and blackening in the moonless air every time I fell asleep. Every time I used my mind to peer back into the past, away from the vast future.

My mind palace had become a starless sky under which I sat alone in the grassy landscape, a small sphere too pitiful to be an asteroid. Soon, as the nights went on, I learned to sit down; with every second that passed by, I waited for her to come.

Every second that went by, I heard the quiet rushing of waves; the sensation of my body softly drifting away in the currents, and I felt as though I was transported to the other side of the universe. And then she was gone.

The second thing I saw was deep blues and dark greys, with a sliver of black to mix it all together. The sky was crying, the bluest blue was on its weary face, emptiness drowned out all the color it had remaining. I realized that moment that the world, too, was sick of its own existence.

Exhausted, I lay down to greet the moon, and it invited me to drown in the melancholy together, not the fragmented poetry of language of the clear waves of the water. No, the bright sun was extinguished, and the stars wandered aimlessly in the eternal space left behind.

With the world darkening, every tear we shed became one where from morning to night we endured ourselves, and we cried for the tomorrow that never came.

The Moon, Their Mistress was written by ArcheNegation with critique from Ferrante, Aequilibrium, and ForestIsWatching. The images used in this article are as follows: Night and The entrance to the ocean in your dreams. Various sentences were paraphrased from Darkness by Lord Byron