Moonstruck

Dear, dusty, departed friend! How long it has been since I darkened your threshold, since I turned to you to pour out the surfeit of emotions held within my constantly-overbrimming heart.

 The spectacular neglect into which I have allowed this sacred little space to fall is beyond reproach; and yet, as an emotionless graphic user interface, you possess neither the capacity nor the sentience required for disdain, for judgment or for bitterness. I return, then, quietly, and without shame or supplication, seeking desperately an altar upon which to lay my secret offerings.

Here, again, is the place where I return when fresh wounds have lacerated me, when the vague hope of a true connection with another human being has led me away on a heady chase through an entangled labyrinth of promises, presumptions and presuppositions, only to end at last in an empty, leaf-strewn courtyard where some mystical fountain, some pretty castle, or other shining prize was supposed to be. 

It's a full moon tonight, the first of the new year. I began to pay attention to the cycles of the moon some time ago. I used to believe in them, to think they held great power and magic. I believed that if I just focused my intention enough on the things that I wanted, the full moon would allow me to create a measurable shift in the universe, to effect true sorcery and to move hearts. 

But the moon is much older than any of us. For untold millennia, it has sat in baleful silence, coolly observing our useless machinations and struggles, our desperate kisses and embraces. That celestial body has witnessed us like centuries of tiny ants, playing at love and politics, scrambling frantically for crumbs. Why should my small, spindly movements, my struggles for the crumbs of life, hold any more importance than those of the millions that came before me, or the millions who will come after?

I am sick at the heart from the ways of the world; especially the viciousness of "social media", which, preying upon my communicative nature and overt desire for connection, tantalizes me with chimeras and artificial constructs of closeness, trust and companionship. 

For a while, not so very long ago, I thought that my every dream had come true. I met someone, someone incredible. His every word made my heart sing.  The problem was that, as he lived on the other side of the planet, he was never truly real.

 We talked for hours over social media - a common theme, for me - and once or twice, had a Skype conversation. I saw him in real time in front of me; I heard his silver voice, his witty turn of phrase, the music of his laughter. But for all I wanted to believe in him, I never really knew who he was at all.

Naturally, as each full moon waxes and wanes, life changes. The gentlemen appeared to me briefly, as a cycle of the heavens, but faded from view as the planet carried on its merciless trajectory and he moved on to new experiences and a rekindled old love.

 How hard it is to mourn something that was never really there! All that remains for me - indeed, all that I ever had - is the little antique locket, adorned with sapphires and delicate gold leaves of ivy, that I bought for him, that I intended to give to him some day.

 He told me once that a sapphire can bring about the best or the worst for its owner. If this be true, I would much rather the locket stayed with me forever. It's easy for me to wear curses, to carry sadness  in my heart. I wouldn't wish this burden on anyone else. And never on him, that living anachronism, that gentlemanly soul from the past, who lives a day ahead, in a future unknown to me, who deserves jewels richer than any I could ever hope to afford, who feeds on the milk and honey of life.