Tonight is a good night for nostalgia,
so go to the lake.
The moon says hello from the surface,
you wave politely.
What memories shall we make tonight?
Perhaps the trees will light aflame
in remembrance of
three hundred forgotten stars.
Your sighs howl in branches
and wind up in your lap;
don’t forget to look
up – and see yourself always upwards.
Eyes put on colder lenses
as the night grows softer, fuzzier.
Warmth yearns for freedom
from weathered tombs.
You let go of the clinging in your eyes,
scattered free on moon beams.
So they walked on the moon,
forever forgetting home.
“I began to lose touch with people and their particular personhood. What does that mean? Well, I guess you could say I began to find them more and more opposed to the goals I had. I began to see them less and less for their smiles, interests, and passions and more as obstacles to attaining what I had in mind. They became more burdensome to be around the more consumed I was with discovering knowledge. They just got in the way. When I wasn’t struggling to learn, I was thinking about how burdened I still was by the past. I couldn’t stop living my life through those eyes; maybe that’s why I ran to my studies. The world was tiresome. I don’t know. I’d spend hours trying to study, only to find that I had been thinking about how things could have been, and if they could still be. When my soul yearned to find an echo in the valley of the world, I was met with nothing but the sickening silence of a story that didn’t matter to anyone, a life that no one could attest to. It might have been the most lonesome place I’d ever had the misfortune of encountering, but that’d be a lie; I’ve never been more alone than when I was among them. The comparisons flooded over me until I was tumbling through waves of inadequacy mingled with the seafoam of frustration. I wasn’t one of them. And it seemed I never could be. And it was freeing, but in the vein of ‘I fell off a cliff, and now here I am – and swiftly.’ I’d soon work my whole life at being someone I wasn’t, hoping someday that the fog would lift, and I’d see myself among them in the heart of the forest, crowded around the light and warmed by its embrace. No sooner would I find myself dashed against the rocks of the ocean depths than when I opened my eyes to discover I’d been spending each moment falling further behind. There’s no end to it. And that’s the cruelty of the matter. This was me, and until I conceded that space and time would continue on in that casual, indifferent way, I would be lodged in my despair forever instead of progressing to the next instance of actuality. I discarded myself as an unrealized potential, mired too deeply in the concern with expanding what I could be instead of resigning to the possibility of a fixed reality. It was all a storm, but it was rife with indiscernible chaos; no pattern ever made itself readily available for interpretation. So I laughed and I laughed until insanity had been declared me, and then, I knew it was over. I could breathe again. I could hear again. I was safe again. But I yearned to be thrown back into the squall for another chance at proving myself to an unknown audience, unaware I’d been sitting in the theatre of my own life, clapping softly as the music faded. And that’s the fin of it all. It waved at me from the depths of the lake that I had plunged into, hoping to wake up and find that I’d been in the plot of another movie.”
– Confessor, the First.