Bathing Blue

Did you know, that wherever you are, whatever day it is, the moon is never bigger than your outstretched thumb? I put a lot of faith in constants, and that’s my constant. Knowing that, wherever I am, whatever day it is, the moon is never, and will never be, bigger than my outstretched thumb. I just watch as it sits there, cushioned in clouds, reflecting its light off of the water vapour, and making the world luminous, bathed in a soft blue glow. It sounds stupid, but I do feel it on me. Just like the sun burns through you, and pricks your skin, the moonlight, it just falls on you. The silver-blue powdered dust drifts onto your skin and into your eyes, and for a couple of moments everything you see is refracted in diamond, crystalline.

Even through bars, the world is beautiful.

The world turns black and white under the brilliance of the moon because it is ashamed. It is ashamed of the comparison it would face next to the moon’s splendour. For the moon, the world goes dark. Like the moments of silence through a lone bugle playing a slow mournful Taps, you stare at the ground, and thank men you’ve never even met for saving you before you were ever even born. It’s a matter of respect. And like that day, with red poppies strewn around fields, and pinned to your chest, you shed two slow tears.

Because there’s something beautiful about that moment, when the world goes silent, when you thank a stranger with all your heart and stare at the soft red and black on petals of bloodshed.

They say the night is a time of darkness. But no, it’s a time of brilliance, a time for secrets to be made, for love to thrive in the darkest of places. A time to take your moment to yourself, whether alone or surrounded by masses, and just wonder how you got so lucky, to be in a place so beautiful. So beautiful that it makes you cry. So beautiful that it makes you want to rip apart the bars, open your bedroom window, and scour the walls until you find your way to the roof, and just sit there, in perfect silence, because moments such as those are easily broken, and if the moon can be beautiful in its silence, maybe you can too, sitting there and bathing its shining silver-blue dust.

You are so perfectly happy in the silence and the shine that suddenly, you look around, and you’re shining, and you’re floating, and you’re flying up. You’re flying up to join the moon, to be part of it, to shower dust and beauty on the dusky world of the night. And as you float in your silence, you see others floating. Others like you, all floating in silver suspension, flying toward your midnight moon. I take that back. I make an amendment to my rule. If you ever do fly toward the moon, you’ll be shocked to find that it becomes increasingly bigger than your thumb. In fact, it engulfs it. Just as it will engulf you as you speed toward it.

So let me tell you one magical constant, although you may find yourself drifting back to earth, and although your sparkle may start to fade, if you ever feel your feet touching something solid, hold your faith in this: if you ever hold your outstretched thumb up to cover the moon, I swear to you.

Every single time. It will sparkle.