The Moon

Late evening. I have put aside a book and prefer to wander the freedom of a darkened room, drift through a window into a framed sky where a bright moon writes itself across the pages of passing clouds. It's an easy drift, letting go like a book dropping from hands when loosened by sleep, lifting up weightless into somewhere else. For the moment I like it here - the quiet, the way everything gently knits together, the play of images cast upon the walls of my room. I have spent too much of my life here, always finding it hard to tell where my mind ends and where the world begins. Childhood still sleepwalks the passageways looking for a way out. Old age wanders the vast territories of this familiar room. I have become the moon, writing myself across the pages of what is passing.