To Calm A Bad Moon

To Calm a Bad Moon

It is not simple, or sweet to calm a bad moon, like the representation of something you overtake, loudly, representing yourself between the demons of the moment where I thought that it was ok to write down in my journal about the time where life became so suddenly still with the empty breeze of love.

Yes. And yes. To calm a moon is to move with it. My body wept generations of a thoughtless wonder. I was so young then – which was two hours ago – and said please forgive me for fearing the thoughts that come over to please my mind. There is a prudent thought, so catastrophic that I was not ready to be buried alive with it. Doors… doors… opening the doors to clean the room.

My pen flows under the paper and not above it. This is the ultimatum of a seaward smile and as I drown in the simplicity of my diary, I say, where was I going with this? The pleasure of writing in my journal is a pleasure that speaks louder than the words themselves.

Currently, I am sitting down and thinking about writing to calm the bad moon because she is simply overtaken by the wrath of her own memory. Suffocation. Dreamless. The rested dream no longer serves her. So, she turns to me as I ask nothing from her and asks, ‘Why do you write in your journal so much? Why do you bother with it? No one is going to read it.’ I respond very coldly: I am willing to be unknown in order to find myself. When I journal, I write down my thoughts and my wishes. I write down my intuitions and fluidly complain that I have never been able to hug.

Yes. Writing down to calm You O moonless desire! O bad moon! I write to be able to calm you with the whispers that drive me sufficiently under the wondrous delight of tender lips, skinned knees, and talking to friends about pagan gods that made us suffer the timid song of honesty.