Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Well, no, not either, really.
Nor is it Superman. It’s the super moon, hanging hugely in the sky, the rabbit in its tummy grinning mischievously and orange-ly. According to the Google gods, a super moon is ‘the coincidence of a full moon with the closest approach the Moon makes to the Earth on its elliptical orbit.’
I like coincidences.
I also like the moon. No, scrap that. I love the moon. My relationship with it, though, is harder and more confusing than my hardest and most confusing and most tumultuous relationship. And that’s saying something.
It’s beautiful, it’s mysterious, its silvery light throws mystical shadows about that whisper and sing, twisting tales, twirling stories, swirling feelings. I love it but, in exactly those moments when I adore it with my whole being, I hate it too.
Because, with it, it brings graphic dreams, that feel more real than reality, choke-hold nights of subconscious terror, wakings with my heart beating in my ears, my breath short, tears streaming. And I hate her for it.
Open my eyes, though, and through my window I see her full, fat, body up high in the sky, her silvery tendril fingers trailing in through my window, caressing my face, drying my tears.
And, again, I love her.