The midnight moonlight strained through the veils that hung either side of the old house's glass soul garners beset in lead white painted frames; trickling onto heavily treaded, rich walnut boards. It was an inviting tease, but seemed so far away than it did last midnight. The clock hadn't quite struck the hour, but sensing it was close began anticipating when...
A tiny draft nudged the curtains ever so lightly, elegantly. The darkness of the last days had taken their toll. Everything seemed to protest the efforts funneled into escaping the swallowing coverlet of the bed. But the moon beckoned and its call was a sadness too loud to ignore. A moment of resolve had the tenses at readiness and just as the final vault was about to be taken, the chimes heralded the hour.
Startled, the vague sense that a third chime had resonated, releasing its self into the night and melding with the walls into silence. Senses finally consorted themselves into some less vague awareness. The clock's official count had begun...4...5...6...7 ...8 - a beat as always on the ninth, a quiver 10... 11...12... a delicate fade for 12th's swan song . the hungry serpent slience, quickly swallowed the room once more.
It's hard not to think in the deafening silence. It seems to breed thoughts from mere dust particles, like those captured by the moonstreams pouring through and making rivulets between the textures of the worn grains of the heavy wooden boards.
Staring at the glowing, gently suspended swirling particles, lit and extinguished as they dipped in and out of the pale blue-grey filems. They seemed so happy elegantly dancing in the moonlight. Envy struck a renewed a determination to bathe in its entrancing soft light.
Desperate muscles fired and the old bed protested from such a vigerous rousing and flung its squatter into the abyss! Suddenly falling to the floor helplessly in an unexpected motion. A frozen moment spent an eternity registering its self in the senses. A blink and acknowledgement. A second blink confirming the ridiculous state of affairs! Lying like a broken puppet waiting for some other source of mobility as the mental strings were tugged one by one working its way around asertaining possible movements that would not further confound the tangled mess of limbs.
Slowly a plan emerges. Gathering the strings drawing up limbs propped against the still protesting creaks of the old bed. A final heave and a somewhat vertical slant, gave way to vertigo. Wafting centrivically left to right anchored by arms clutching screaking posts. Pressed Darkness from obedient lids offered a slight repreive.
The moon waited paitently, peaking under and over a bevy of clouds. Heartbeats counted down the long voyage to the land of respite. The beauty called hauntingly, telling of a wanting so powerful, so necessary, that eyes and moon ached in symphony.
The whole house seemed to want to urge on the meeting of moonbeams and iris. The cool air coalesced around uncertain feet placing invisible wings upon ankles. One foot drawn slightly past the other slid on cool waxed boards.
Enforced Blindness seemed to be fitting as hands reached out for the window seat. An endless push and desperatte fumbling finally succeed in finding the hard ledge and once heaved up by protesting muscles onto the fitted cushion with the throw wrestled awkwardly and finally drawn up and over, a deep breath took in the fragrant night air.
Sitting quietly for a moment, listening to the faint fllutters of the winds secrets. The moonlight gently pressing into the translucence of thin eye lids urged sweetly to be admired with a sincere promise of exceeding the glowing return. Slowly, unable to resist such gentle persuasion, a readiness creeped through gathering momentum and eyes slowly flickered open absorbing the beauty. The warmth of relief welled up. The moon, appreciated so, shined its best! Having been so lost in quiet symbiotics, the ambience was suddenly pierced, as a solitary chime brought with it, the reminder that one is alone, like the moon in a sea of stars.
.
Some things are worth it. Appreciation is a lost art left to those who are happy or dying.
