To those who think they know me, there is nothing special about the night, except maybe for the moon. A moon that is bigger than the sky and takes up so much of your vision that it’s hard to think about anything else. The kind that grabs you by the souls and won’t let go, holding onto you, wrapping itself around you, becoming one with the who and the what, of you.
But then those who think they know me would never understand how powerful such a moon is.
It’s power taunts and seduces until all I desire is to throw back my head and howl until the very earth itself shakes. But if I give into that temptation too soon, how many others will try and push their way out into the open? How many more of my secrets will fight and jockey their way into freedom until the who and the what of me is no longer hidden. No longer confined to simply the white moon of winter?
As far as my eyes can see, and they can see pretty damn far, the night is covered in a frost that is as tangible as it is mysterious. Tangible, because the white moon’s light flickers over every surface like diamonds on glass. Mysterious, because what the eye cannot see is that among its flickering light is a world in which faerie, spirit and the dead come together in a tapestry of life few mortals will ever know.
But I digress.
Yet how can I not when I’m surrounded by such wonder, such marvels, that if given even a sliver of chance I will trade all my tomorrows to remain as I am tonight. Forever abandoning the identity that keeps me from my true self. A persona placed upon me at birth by those too frightened of their own natures to allow me, their offspring, the freedom to choose between it and the who and what of me.
But again, I digress.
Thoughts of what could be, should be, wanna be. These still remain to be seen. The edict has yet to be made and so I wait under her bright light, under the dazzle of her beauty, my souls chained to the lie of who I am not, while longing for the who that I truly am.
The white moon of winter now shines her light on the caves opening, shadow and revelation coming together to give their verdict. The very hairs of my coat tingle with ripples of anticipation. Like a lamb to the slaughter, do I live or do I die? Tonight, under a white moon of winter, I will forever be one or the other, no longer torn between a lie and a truth. Leaving behind the one to embrace with full frontal passion the other.
I shiver. On peaks that glisten beneath the brilliancy of her orb, the white moon of winter now reveals her answer and I am forever changed by its truth.