Went outside to look at the moon. As expected, there was too much cloud cover to see it, but I got a bit of the moon crazies in me regardless.
There’s something magical about being outside late at night, when the streets are empty and you’re suddenly a little bit less real—when everything is a little bit less real—
—or is it more real?
The pavement under my bare feet is cold and flat and I love the way it feels under my soles. It slaps against my skin, almost pushing back. I can nearly feel the curvature of the Earth and the way we’re spinning through space. I curl my toes. I think of spatial relativity and models of the solar system.
There’s adrenaline in my system—not a lot—just enough to make me giggle, make me twirl around and decide to spontaneously skip down the block on my way to the dorm.
I sprint up the stairs and I am suddenly aware of my body. Not of the weight of it, as my teacher tells us to think of when we’re going through meditation before drawing, but its weightlessness. I am light and fragile as a tiny bird, and for a moment I think I could fly.
I sprint up the stairs, bounding.
I am hollow bones and sparkling stardust, infected with the moon crazies. I catch sight of myself in the window’s reflection—there’s something a bit off about my run (too jerky in my arms, yet my steps are loose)—and I grin back.
Lunatic from lunar from luna from moon moon moon bloodmoon in the sky, and I can feel my pulse and my heart thudding in my chest as I alight on the top step.
I am for one moment a creature not of this world, and I am ethereal and beautiful and strange—
—and then I am just me, giggling to myself, curls bouncing, as I sprint back to the normalcy of my room.