Very disjointed stream of consciousness, because I’m an insomniac and I like to think there’s something alive in a windy, moonlit night.
The orange city lights burn brighter than the moon. The artificial color displays a lone night wolf, stalking the streets, full of drink and rabidly attacking the aggressive cobblestone. Lights stretch as far as the eye can see and one wonders what we look like to the sisters on the Moon.
The cool velvet of the night sky glints occasionally as an airplane glides by. Bursts of wind claim the skin, then the meat under the flesh. My own threads of hair whisper across my face as I stare at the eternal sky and feel what it is to be alive for the moment. It is an ephemeral feeling but real and strong to the core. This rare occasion calls for song, but I know not to test my limits and instead offer up a silent homage. Whether the prayer finds its way to Freya for its appreciation of beauty or to Shiva for the understanding of destruction to create life, I will it to the gods,my silent worship of life and it’s mysterious and contrary beauty.