In the frozen tundra of Nunavut, on the edge of the Arctic Circle, in the depths of the winter's cold, the nights can stretch for an eternity. For up to twenty hours at a time, the sun remains hidden below the horizon, leaving the sky vacant for the Goddess Luna to glide beneath the stars. With so much time to herself, free of the critical gaze of her master, Sol, she can play to her heart's delight on the extraterrestrial stage.
One might wonder what sort of heart the Moon Goddess might have? The scientific mind would claim it is a chunk of solidified iron, trapped in her lifeless core beneath a crusty shell of ancient rock and dust. The artist will see her heart as a tapestry of fire dancing across the sky as the Aurora Borealis, beautiful, alive, and haunting. The lover will see the warmth of her light casting a romantic glow suitable for sipping fine Bordeaux, soothed by the crashing of waves on a tropical beach, curled on a blanket with an attractive companion.
I see desolation, isolation, and solitude. The moon is a lonely veiled shadow, half ghost and half vixen, forever without a companion; so near, yet a lifetime away. She has haunted our history since the dawn of time and will continue to circle, alone, until well after we are gone and her Master Sol has burned the atmosphere from the planet and scorched the crust bare. She will have no lover, no friends, no companions, and will dance always to the celestial music in a solitary mathematical ballet. The stars are no closer to her than they are to us and show her no special favour.
She is a capricious Mistress, sometimes making our nights bright and sometimes deciding to sheath us in darkness. She is the eternal Mother, linked always to women's fertility and feminine cycles in synchronicity with hers. She is the protector of witches and the controller of the lycanthropes, driving the werewolves and other such creatures into a frenzy when she is at her fullest. She is the surrogate Sun for the vampyre who cannot walk beneath the light of day. She is many things to the many who live and die beneath her cruel eyes.
I know her well, for as I sit here at night, alone, without friend or family, I talk to her and she answers back. She tells me of her loneliness and the ache that fills her with despair. She talks of the nothingness that is her existence. She wants no friends now, for she is past caring and closer to insanity than to reason. She hates with a venomous passion that will terrify any who dare open their soul to her. She radiates coldness, bitterness, and misery, causing suffering and unhappiness without remorse for her actions. She would watch every last breath of life be extinguished, if such a thing could happen, and she smiles at the thought in a perverse and sadistic joy. She knows nothing of love, though many will not believe me when I say that.
Though she will forever spurn my advances, I love, adore, worship, and cherish her. I have always loved her, starting when my eyes first opened and I saw her hovering, beautiful, serene and bright above me. My hands opened and closed, grasping for her, unknowing that she was then, and forever, beyond my reach. My first word was "Luna" -- the name of my eternal lover. I see her face every night as I go to bed and I see it first thing in the morning as I awaken, though sometimes only in my imagination. Her misery and unhappiness has fused with mine and together we share a depth of sorrow that can only be described as perfection.
My life will end soon but hers will not. Though she will no longer have my company and be in my thoughts, she will carry on as if nothing has changed. She cares not for my love or my passing, for caring would threaten the absolute perfection of her despondence. She hates me as she hates all that exists, but I know that her hate is her way of recognising my existence. Her hatred drove me to carry on through all the misery of my own pathetic and meaningless life and provided me with a role-model and mentor. My bitterness and anger is a copy of hers, perfect in every detail. Though my death will be irrelevant, my life is a testament to the pureness of evil that is formed in solitude and isolation.
The nights are cold in the arctic, as is my heart. Water freezes, as does my blood. The wind is biting and cruel, as is my spirit. The land is empty and lifeless, as is my soul. I am the moon personified. I am a living, breathing, hating, spiteful, vindictive, and cruel incarnation of the Mistress Luna. I am identical to her in every way but one. She is immortal and I am not.
Now my time draws to a close. I will not die of cancer and rot from the inside as my organs turn into masses of tumorous, necrotic flesh. I will not gasp and turn blue, spasming in the throws of cardiac arrest. I will not permit the disintegration of my synapses in the cruel decay of my cognitive functions from disease and old age. I will end my life with my lover, my reason intact, my body whole, my spirit filled with the anger and hatred she has taught me to cultivate. I will walk out into the night, naked as I came into this world and I will let the winter's cold steal my life's essence. I will sit in the glory of her pale silver light and I will slowly slip into her bosom and finally merge my soul to hers.
The moon is a harsh Mistress, as cold in death as she is in life. She is empty and alone, cold and aloof, independent and free. She casts her cool pale light on all who live, though most prefer the warmth and laughter of her Master, the Sun. She is my lover, and as I type these last words, I know that I will join her as she dances her endless solitary dance, alone in the heavens above.