Nothing to Say;

The Drums - How It Ended

(Source: hoookerpop)

moderateclimates:

they told me

They told me, “Do not write about the Moon, for that has been done for thousands of years.” They told me, “Write only what has touched your heart. Write only what has shaped your universe. Do not write about the Moon. Every new writer will.” 

I wanted to scream when they told me that. I held a pen that had never been used, and they paused to let me make notes, to validate their formulaic writing advice with quick notes and bullet points. I never wrote down a word. The lecture continued on, but what they had muttered carelessly before kept running, ‘round and ‘round my broken mind. I wanted to scream when they told me that. I have never wanted to write about the Moon.

I want to write about the Sun.

I have been living all these years, these long years marked by the passing of false romances and growing wrinkles, to find the perfect way to write that exploding star that lives so near, and yet so far. Between us and She, there lies an eternal, impassable vacuum, where dreams go to die and wishes fly in the drowning, dark night. A scalding spot just above the horizon, She haunts us with her distance and her immediate presence. Does she think I cannot see her?

I watch her rise and fall, in opposition to my daily routines. She lives in perfect balance to me, imploding whilst I explode, resting while I scream. It is her fiery caramel skin that gives me rest, that calms my racing heartbeat when I awaken from that same old nightmare. I cannot count the number of times I have falling asleep, longing for her charcoal embrace, embers burning an immutable scar against my ribcage. My heart finds reason to pulse from the stimulants that are her eyes, a dark, passionate stare that sets my skin aflame, and memories to be flashed brilliantly across the film of cognition. The scent of a once-burning flame has permeated my lonely bedroom, where She once slept beside me.

The Sun was once a girl on this fleeting earth. She was born with two arms, two legs, ten fingers, ten toes, and passion. She sketched out her childhood with chalk on the driveway, an ever-expanding poem that was recorded in the brilliance of a rainbow against the mechanisms of humanity. She used to fly down hills, travelling in a timeless moment from the ocean to the desert, from the Amazon to the tropics. I never knew her then. I never knew her when she cradled her innocence within the palms of her hands, a secret she kept locked away from a divided home. I never knew her when she was whole. I only knew her when her purity had been defiled and her trust betrayed. That’s when that little girl became a reluctant woman, and the reluctant woman became the Sun. I fell in love with that Sun, as She fled this hurting world for the sanctity of empty space. She was tired, and her flesh was cut open. She began to burn. A star.

You see, I have fallen in love with this girl that burns. She consumes me with passion, with ferocity, with determination. The moon? I remembered that they taught me how to write—that they tried to teach me how to write. Why would I ever write about the Moon, when I could write about the Sun? 

They cannot tell me how to write. They cannot tell me which words to put in front of others. I cannot tell myself that. All I know is that I write for the Sun. I write for my very own Star. Her.