A blanket of inky wool covers me with silver stars cheekily poking through the holes, forming a pattern trying to get a view of how the crescent moon lights my way. Kind of like a boss, as it controls me. Some would say I have a personality disorder. As one minute, I can be so chilled, so calm, still, then, gosh, wow, I rage. Like a monster roaring, jumping out of my bed, fiercely crashing, ripping and trashing anything that is in my way. I wait for no one, I have no care, I’m angry, like a raging bull or someone who has had years bottling up anger and feelings of despair.
Exhausted, my sweat has salt from years before history began. So, the Oder is strong, bitter perhaps, an yet it’s something that humans love to inhale. They come from miles to visit me, they put some kind of trust in me, why? How can they be so trusting, as I really am not good, I have killed, if a human killed, would people flock to see that murderer? No, but me, they visit. I guess they hope to see my good side, as I have two faces, but what if my face should turn would they regret that visit? Or, would they live to regret that journey to see me.
They even trust me with their children. I have no heart I don’t mind who I take. People, are mad, aren’t they? Now, when I am happy, I am calm, gentle, the beast behind me has gone to sleep giving the other me time to be free to do what I am best at. Making humans happy and giving life to creatures that need me. I am so important I am needed. I am a lifeline for sure. I’m beautiful too, not like a Prince or Princess, just beautiful in my own rights.
Who created me, what was I first, gentle, majestical and beautiful, or, angry, furious in fact, a killer. What makes me angry, some say the moon, well, why would the moon make me angry? Not when I can be so perfect, why would the moon want to cause such damage? What is the moon, who created that bright light that stares down at me at nights? I see it clearly, I can’t touch it, but I know I have to bow to it respect it. I jump up towards the clouds, forming an arch shape for I am the king, but soon the moon puts me in my place. Who is the boss of the moon?
Did I get the rough deal? What if I want another job? Before me there is a carpet of golden sand, a carpet so soft, warm, wonderful to lay on, but I have to look at that and end that peace, I run towards it and I suffocate any life on there. Flattening all shapes that little humans have made that day. Do I smile, no, I’m not that sick, I’m just ill, if I were a human, perhaps I would be locked up for my own safety.
I’m mad, cross, humans float on me, using huge crafts rubber, engines, polluting my space. Putting oil in my veins. Stressing my life. Hurting me and all who live with me. I get used as a dumping ground. Choking my breath as if in strangulation. I’m robbed daily, they take things that belong to me. I’m helpless. So, I guess I retaliate. In the only way, I know.
© Fiona Cummings
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