Because only once the storm has passed, only once the tears have flooded the rivers and gorged the ground and washed away the dirt the debris the destruction and decay, only then -
only then will the sun step outside
smile to the sky
and dare to shine.
—Tahereh Mafi, Unite Me (Juliette’s Journal)
Maybe we both fell in love with the illusion of something more.
Loneliness is a strange sort of thing. It creeps up on you, quiet and still, sits by your side in the dark, strokes your hair as you sleep. It wraps itself around your bones, squeezing so tight you almost can’t breathe. It leaves lies in your heart, lies next to you at night, leaches the light out from every corner. It’s a constant companion, clasping your hand only to yank you down when you’re struggling to stand up. You wake up in the morning and wonder who you are. You fail to fall asleep at night and tremble in your skin. You doubt you doubt you doubt do I don’t I should I why won’t I And even when you’re ready to let go. When you’re ready to break free. When you’re ready to be brand new. Loneliness is an old friend standing beside you in the mirror, looking you in the eye, challenging you to live your life without it. You can’t find the words to fight yourself, to fight the words streaming that you’re not enough never enough never ever enough. Loneliness is a bitter, wretched companion. Sometimes it just won’t let go.
—Tahereh Mafi (Unravel Me)
I’m not sure. But there’s something about the darkness, the stillness of this hour, I think, that creates a language of its own. There’s a strange kind of freedom in the dark; a terrifying vulnerability we allow ourselves at exactly the wrong moment, tricked by the darkness into thinking it will keep our secrets. We forget that the blackness is not a blanket; we forget that the sun will soon rise. But in the moment, at least, we feel brave enough to say thing we’d never say in the light.
The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human: Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.
Words, I think, are such unpredictable creatutes. No gun, no sword, no army or king will ever be more powerful than a sentence. Swords may cut and kill, but words will stab and stay, burying themselves in our bones to become corpses we carry into the future, all the time digging and failing to rip their skeletons from our flesh.