Red Moon

I remember another time, another place, another world. Now, it's all different, and it grows more difficult each day to remember what this world once was like. The days drift lazily, time ticking in a monotonous, slow rhythm. I am so weary.

The wind whips all about my small abode, awakening me with a force borne of nature’s impending wrath. The brightness of the new day is shielded only by dark curtains hanging in my solitary, tiny window. It begins to spread across the room as I reluctantly rise from my bed to smother the bit of warmth remaining in the furnace. I remove my woolen gloves (though I’m not sure what good they serve with so many holes) to pick up my journal and pencil so I can note today’s data. This is the ninety-eighth book I’ve begun, and I wonder if I will still be alive to complete another after the pages of this one are full. It's a new year, a new day. The sun’s persistent brightness is a constant reminder today, January 4, 2050, may be my last. Without a doubt, the days which remain are numbered.

Though the morning arrives in penetrating, relentless cold, the day’s temperature quickly begins to escalate to a higher level of heat and humidity. Despite the heat of the day, I'll repeat what menial tasks I do each and every day until I'm able to venture outside to bask in what nature and reality I can see beneath the brilliance of a red moon. As usual, I will expect to find no other save me though each time I leave my sanctuary, I am left to wonder if any other living creature wanders this formidable earth, and if so, where they might be? Brazil? Australia? Canada? China? The far side of what remains of the white cliffs? I would dearly love to know the answers.

Indeed, to be able to converse and exchange such pleasantries with another is an expectation of which I dare not dream though the thought teases the imagination's boundaries. Perhaps we could share a cup of birch tea and exchange notes. I am afraid, however, I am still very much alone, and it remains an ongoing challenge adjusting to a solitary life. It’s been over eight years since I last stumbled upon another. It was on a moon-filled, star-studded night while I made my solitary trek to the edge of the cliffs. Like me, the other person trudged along the path, appearing as frightened and as wary of me as I was of him. I knew he scavenged for food and shelter, as such things are scarce. It was strange, was it not? One would have thought we'd have have been ecstatic to see the other, but no, instead, fear superseded to encompass all thought and each chose the path of least resistance, steering clear of the other.

I regret it now......regret with my entire existence I did not welcome that stranger. Why did I not acknowledge him with a gesture of good will? Why did I not offer to share my shelter and what little food I had? I so wish I had done so. Wish I had exhibited traits of the person I once was: a kind and benevolent, yet strong, human. The fact I’ll never have another opportunity to share such things with another being haunts me while the longing to do so reverberates in my heart.

This world has become frightening, more so because two lonely souls chose different paths to avoid the other. We were two ships passing in the night. That was once upon a time a favored cliché, was it not? Some bit of poetry, unknowingly prophetic, which filled the literary shelves of days long past. I’d know precisely from where that saying was derived if my guaranteed piece of technology had not long since burnt out. So much for the extra warranty I purchased for a handsome bit of change. It's fortuitous I foresaw its inevitable demise and packed ample pen and paper. If not for the age-old method of writing and recording, I would have long gone stark, raving mad. Forgive me please as I stifle my laughter. It is too often I wonder if I have already lost most, if not all, of my faculties.

Though I may be well on the road to madness, I am still able to appreciate what little of the earth’s beauty remains. The sun has lowered in the horizon, so it's time to venture outside. I do so with relish, eager to breathe in what I can. It won’t be long before I'll need to go in search of more sustenance. The thought of doing such fills me with dread. My fear is a palpable thing. I am afraid of losing my way or not managing to make it home before the sun rises. Each day, the sun blazes and creeps nearer. It is too close for comfort during the heat of day.

This evening, the view does not fail to amaze again as I look out over the massive ocean. Even though the white cliffs of Dover, once momentous and regal, are practically immersed beneath waves, there remains recognizable beauty. The red moon’s brilliance floods the evening sky, and though formidable, illuminates my path allowing me to continue farther.

As I move across the rough terrain, my mind settles on the impending doom. Could it be that the universe is angry and loathes the sight of all humans it now spies on the earth? If so, I cannot fault it for we humans deserve its wrath. We were overly careless - excessive and neglectful of our earthly gifts, while being undeniably selfish in our quest for more accolades. No, I do not blame the universe, but I still wish it would not take aim at our beloved, beautiful landmarks. They are innocent of man’s foul deeds. I dare not imagine what the next decade – or even the next day – may bring. How long will the white cliffs endure the onslaught of the sun and ocean? My hope is receding like the lush green land which once covered the land.

The void is real. I feel lost, teetering on the precipice of the unknown. Instead of finding joy in each day, I am afraid. Fear and loneliness are my constant companions. I haven’t heard or seen a bird – or any other animal for that matter - for so long. It grows more difficult to recount the beauty in the lark’s song or Chopin's Etudes. What more can happen or be lost? There is only one thing is certain: we will not sustain ourselves in this darkening wasteland we call home.

I arrive back at my dome, ready for the warmth inside as temperatures continue to fall. It is a good thing I am an introvert and always chose to spend time with me, myself, and I for I have non other option now. As for the future, I’ll continue to write, nonsensical notes (like this) to imaginary friends (like you). In this world of fantasy, I’ve published my fifty-fourth novel. Gee but can you believe it? My fifty-second book is a contender for the Pulitzer Prize, too. Yes, there are perks to be had in this solitary existence.

I take a final glance at the brilliance of the red moon, knowing it may be the last time I do so. In my mind, I am thankful for another day and night, but in my soul, I am weary to the bone.

I am left with only one thought: what the ‘morrow bring?