it's a thunder moon. full moon of july. the first one after the summer solstice. i have never been so in-tune with the moon. it all started when i got to banff last year. the weird inclination to befriend the night, though it always was there, as long as i could remember, really touched me this year. especially since gabe died. infectious fever to look up into the night sky. again and again and again.
as one cannot sleep, it's only natural to seek the nightly world i suppose- the one that may be pale and a bit far, quiet, almost eerie. even in the middle of the city of three and a half millions.
this evening, i tried to keep my consciousness occupied by editing pictures and doing some silly things. things with no deadlines. things to keep self busy. things that i could place in between the cracks of thoughts, the cracks that bleeds deeply through myself, a pool of grief, much like the tears of earth i walked on during caving adventures, the lagoon of silence untouched by time, a great loss.
great big fangs that bites through, tearing chunks off a living being. like icarus, one keeps living. a living wound. not to be healed. not to be ignored. real as it was, for the first time, for the eternity of my consciousness.
am i a living wound or am i a living being with a wound?
thunder moon, bringing storm onto the open land, the lone soul fleet foot fleeing from the storm, dashing through the shadows of grass stained with shards of falling sky, running and running and running and running, through the vast sky and earth, where one cannot possibly see the end nor the beginning of the great cycle of life, as i saw through the new cusp of the year at stonehenge, as i breathed cold air of the prairie dawn, as i soaked self through the glimpse, a sliver of the great distance of this world while crossing the great big belly of this land-
words that kept me going.
the words i sowed to eat, to live.
to pass through.
to hang onto.
i went through my own words with a hint of hypnosis- with no means to say 'no,' just like hansel following his own breadcrumb trail. i am eating my own trail. piece by piece. sustenance. for desperate times. for now. the writings of late april and may, splattered with a young life, lost on the road, still coppery on my nose, blood, slowly losing its colour.
i lay my head down and cry. it has been three short and long months. i shove more words into my mouth, through gritted teeth, as if i could choke my own voice, as if i am possessed.
i have lost a brother.
and he's not coming back.
and i am going on.
*photo: san pedro cave, bolivia.