Monday, 20 September 2010


When I was very young (a mere child) I would often wonder at moonlight. Moonlight was a cold and tangible thing, a painful thing, it would remind me of lands I had never visited, of dreams I had not yet seen, of people I had not yet met. The proleptic rays of the moon would engulf me in a wave of nauseous nostalgia, a nostalgia that I had not yet felt. I would close my eyes and crouch in front of the large French windows which looked out on a meadow. I would feel alone. And I was only five.

I am sorry I was ever born. The secret enchanted woodlands of my childhood, sad yet enticing, is called by another name now. Love. The pain dries my throat and leaves me incoherent as I realize that love is nothing but a dream I cannot see, a land just out of my reach, a person I will never know.

Then I gaze at the moon and the moon sings a soft dirge.
Beethoven heard it so many years ago.

Why am I no longer five? Why did I have to grow up so much? The solitude then was of a different kind, an awareness that some benevolence exists, a mother will sing me to sleep, a father will hold my hand as my feet softly trace the contours of dewy grass. Such days leave us by- and we are only left with the memory, the mere silhouette, the shadow

of a bitter moon.


snickersnee said...

"I am sorry I was ever born..."

love the post.

Elendil said...

Brilliant stuff.

Benevolence and love are all still there to find. Just go hug your mom! It's what I do.

rapunzel said...

what a lovely!

Lucifer said...

bhery naaicelee witten :)

Lucifer said...

You seem critical :)

Magically Bored said...

Why so emo? Let's have coffee. <3

Anoo. said...


Madhuri Ramachandran said...

beautiful and bitter, I agree, I love :)