“The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.”
― William Shakespeare
I must make a confession. It is neither a confession that threatens my morals, nor is it a confession that invites sordid shame. It is a confession that saddens me, more than anything. It is a sort of confession that forces me to see that getting out of the house is not a good idea and that my feet are rooted in mud and dead grass and to realize that the November rains are not here to cleanse me of dirt and soil. It is not here for me, not there for me, not anywhere at all, really, but everywhere for a cracked piece of ashwood to sod.
There was a time when I was still under a roof that I felt the logs inside my soul weigh me down. It was not a gentle tugging. It was not a puncture, not a deflation. It was a heavyweight fighter throwing me down to the floor, pinning my head and heart down kind of weigh me down. So I had burnt them, the logs. Tinder and spark. Fire and bark. I left shelter thinking I could keep myself warm. And so it goes, the tale of a burning girl in monsoon winds.