Thumbing my nose at werewolves, vampires, and other denizens of gothic horror and teenage fantasies, I walk beneath the full moon tonight. The air outside is refreshingly cool, and madness reflects brightly off the moon’s surface.
For there is madness in the full moon, is there not? A touch of the lunatic? It is not mere superstition that attributes insanity to this celestial spectre. Its existence alone confirms it: a bright white hole poked in the blue-black tarp of night, belying the darkness. A dark blot in the sky at midday would herald craziness just as absolutely.
Light in the midst of dark is madness. A good person in a bad world is madness. Moon, what do you hope to accomplish? Do you believe one day you will illuminate fully? Or are you satisfied with your monthly battle, to cast too little light and never any more?
Your madness affects the clouds, too. In daytime, the clouds stifle and fluster the sun, but now, in the night time, a wispy cloud comes to cover you and instead amplifies your light, providing you with a halo.
I have followed the moon for some time and must now return home. But I do not wish to turn my back on my astronomical companion. I will return in reverse. Where a forward walk is fluid and smooth, a backward walk is rhythmic, segmented, clockwork.
And now, moon, I see how fickle you are. When I followed you, you coyly fled, but now you are the pursuer as I make my retreat. I see now that it is you, not I, who dictates our distance, for you are the madder of we two. The sane are tethered by their commitments and expectations and schedules and maps, but the mad choose freely their time and place.