Last night, a few minutes past eleven, I was hunched on the bed spending some insomniac timeby reading the anthology Stories: All New Tales. Every twenty minutes or so, I would punctuate a short story by looking up and gazing through our wooden blinds. Through the slits, past the rust-caked roofs of our neighbors, I could see the moon, and I would stare at it for long moments adoring its beauty. When the dark clouds would cloak it away from my sight, I would go back to the book and begin reading again.
My favorite moon would be a full moon, but not the white one surrounded by a few wisps of black clouds, the clichéd image that frequented too many vampire/werewolf flicks. I like it yellowish or orange-ish. I guess it’s because I’ve always wanted to associate it with a description of a moon in a D.W. Jones book from childhood—that it hung like a golden gong in the sky, or something like that. It makes me feel nostalgic. The moon last night, however, was not my favorite one. It was not even full; I guess it’s called gibbous, the phase between a half moon and a full moon…and it was immaculately white.
Be that as it may, I still liked it. It was far from a circle, but I think its imperfection made it more beautiful. Its incompleteness and wee flaw—like in humans—seems to weave a story worth telling and listening to (or yeah, maybe it’s just me and my over-analytical musings). It looked like a glowing jewel with a tiny portion of it chipped off, as if it was accidentally dropped and damaged; because it was still too exquisite to be thrown, it was latched back onto the wall of the night sky.
I stayed up last night, alternating my moon-gazing with reading. But soon I heard small rustlings outside the window—cats maybe, or almost-hairless rats the size of cats (YES, DUDE, THEY EXIST). Because my book was choked with things that inspire horror and I was too involved in it, I couldn’t help but feel a little fretful. I fetched for a hanger and closed the blinds. I went back to reading, and force of habit, I looked up, only to be greeted by the brown wood of our closed window. I opened it again, but the moon was already hidden between black sheets of clouds.
Cue in my metaphor-filled brain: two of the many lessons I was reminded of last night—sans the ones from my reading—truly reflect certain aspects of my life, or your life. Perhaps everyone’s life.
One: you don’t need to be perfect. One of the real splendors of humans is being flawed. It makes us unique, it makes us special, it makes us individuals, and it makes us beautiful. If we’re perfect and there’s nothing else to add to ourselves, how can we learn? How can we enjoy life? How can we grow? How can we truly live? Dang, how can we be human? :p
When I closed the blinds, it was because I was wary of the small things that scare me (which may not even exist, mind you)—and in the process I unwittingly sacrificed the sight of the moon. Here’s lesson number two: for so many times in our lives we let our fear get in the way of being happy. Paranoia makes us more careful, but in efforts of not being hurt, maybe we’re actually hurting ourselves more.
Maybe it’s one of those nights, when all I can do is muse until the sun broke the darkness. But you know, I guess reflecting on the littlest of things is equivalent to taking a dose of medicine for the stressed mind and heart. :p