There were those of us that wept because we tried to cup double handfuls of water where the moon resided, but we were unable to touch its reflection and our tears marred the surface of our efforts. How were we to know that what we wanted was the mere idea of the image? She does not exist. We are caught between the distance dependent on this image and the desire for a proximity that would destroy it without the guarantee that what we uncover is better.
Oh the inconstant moon which we dare not swear by. It follows us without bidding, but alters imperceptibly at a constant rate, such that we can be suddenly surprised at its diminution or how gluttonous of secrets it has gotten -- a result of solely our inattention. I believe she wants to tell us how we can understand her better, but holds back because she knows how cheap that would render her being. She is not afraid of revealing the secrets she holds, for she knows they are the same as ours if we would but admit to them.
I appreciate the release that's required to float in water. There's a sort of trust in the immersion you need before the water can carry you. What was it that allowed the first human to discover this weightlessness in liquid, this idea that there's a surrender before security? There's more control required to walk on water, I've found. My feet sink a half inch into the water's surface before it catches, allowing me to sprint over the sea in pursuit of the layered moon's reflection. I run, run, run. Each step throws back an arc of lit-up effulgence from moon water. To say that my steps slosh would perhaps take away from the romance of it, but I think there's a joy to this solitary puddle-jumping that throws water into the face of serenity. I think the moon understands, even as each step destroys its facade. I hope I can be forgiven that.
How were we to know that what we wanted was to achieve a loneliness that can only be found in the company of others? Or that once we found that, we would find that solitude was the only cure for that self-same loneliness? We had promised each other that we would remain together for the glimpse of a beauty in the future. We didn't want to extinguish that possibility only inherent together. But we couldn't have known how deeply seated our future mistakes would become in the heart of the other, and how that would violate our sense of surrender and security. How do we reconcile a promise that was made to each other's inner selves, when we were really only looking at double handfuls of water that ran out of our hands the second we tried to grasp them?
This doubt seizes me and the next step I take doesn't catch on the water's surface tension but instead sinks my entire body into the water.
And that's it. It would be so easy to never grant surrender, to instead relegate myself to this quiet desperation that only reveals itself in vulnerable contemplation. People in denial of the moon are not any less foolish than those that would seek it by plunging their hands into the water as if grabbing hold of a rainbow-scaled fish that is won through luck or skill acquired over time or a combination of those.
But this promise we made holds me. Not out of an obligation or the idea of its innocent hope. How much I would love to hide the moon, but how much more would I love to pursue it forever. Surrender is not enough to float and so I swim, light and water pouring in rivulets from my face as I break through the surface.
Will the moon draw closer to us if we keep our eyes fixed on it? If we draw closer to it? There's really only one way to find out.