Unraveling the Quiescent

Day 1

I've been walking in darkness for nearly 13 hours, but I've finally managed to find her; the moon. She'll help me write this entry, she's always so bright at just the right times. I'm new to this, a complete novice, I have no clue how to go about it; whether it be exploring or documenting my journey. I barely feel like I have the right equipment for it. I'm not sure what prompted me to take it, this unknown territory has only been mentioned twice in all of my life, yet both of those remarks have been so earnest and honest that they impacted me deeply.

The first time it was mentioned, I was merely a boy, in the middle of the slippery slope of adolescence. I'll never forget the look and tone of the person relating these myths to me, (that's what they are to me; myths. Until I find what I'm looking for, I'll keep thinking of them as such.) a hand on my shoulder as they never hesitated for a moment in their momentous speech. That was my first push into this void of nothing. I never forgot those words, they have been an echo in the back of my mind for years, almost like a sort of torment, never leaving me alone even when I so desperately wanted to forget them.

That's it - desperation. The exact word I was looking for. My prime motivator in this mad journey. This growing desperation within me was clearly demonstrated at the second mention of this uncharted zone, 3 days ago. I had rejected and grown so angry at the mere second mention of it so many years later, now having moved on from adolescence to a man in the middle of the slippery slope of his twenties, and yet with that same unbearable echo reverberating in my evidently empty brain (why else would it keep echoing like an empty cave?).

This time round, the person relating this mystery to me was not as patient or calm as the first, their explosion prompted mine, and a shouting match began. You see, it had only been mentioned twice so explicitly, but there had been so many clues and hints as the years kept going by, that you'd really think someone or something was torturing me, or that a curse had been bestowed upon me from the first mention of it. So my outburst was only to be expected, I was (am?) so tired of hearing it, seeing it, thinking it that for it to be presented in front of me again in such an unambiguous manner finally gave me a chance to outwardly rebel against it. How pathetic it is, letting myself be so agonistic over something that I very obviously don't believe in. How especially pathetic it is, going on a hunt to find this poignant place. That's right, a hunt. That's what I'm doing. I'm hunting it down like an angry dog, challenging it to show itself if it has the courage to, and then when I get my answer, I'll put an end to it once and for all. It has persecuted me enough.

I won't find it, and that will be the end of it. I will find it, and I will suffocate it.

I'll rest here for the night, I never can seem to abandon the moon once I've found her, and this tree is just at the right angle to rest my back on, it hardly feels like hard wood. The stars were my companions these 11 hours, Miss Moon only appeared on the 12th - with a great many clouds coming and going to cover her, not aiding me on my journey at all - and I've been trying to get closer ever since. My legs were exhausted long ago, but my haste took over. I can't afford to waste any time, but my old friend has managed to calm me down, as she always does, so I'll allow myself to pause. I only have with me this notebook and this pencil, which is slowly disappearing with every letter I write. I am definitely not equipped to be here, but the decision was made after 2 long days of boiling up with anger. No one knows I'm here, no one knows what I'm doing, I find people often ruin things when they know your plans.

Excuse the long entry full of everything and nothing, it's only my first day.

Day (?)

I've kept walking, the sky is somehow getting lighter and clearer, but the trees are getting thicker, thorns and thistles are everywhere, and my mobility is greatly limited. Luna is still shining brightly, I must get closer; she's my guide, she's my companion, I don't feel so alone in these sharp woods when I'm with her. The brightening sky is making me anxious, I'd rather have it be dark than lose my moon.

I have several wounds on me now, the growing sharpness of everything around me is clearly a sign to warn me against going further, but I'm in the middle now, and if I turn back, I'll be walking away from my only light. Going back to darkness, no matter how accustomed to it I've become, is a thought that troubles me so much so that a waterfall long forgotten threatens to form in my eyes. I didn't know I could do that anymore, I've forgotten the name of it.

I've found an uncomfortable rock to lean on in the meantime, my handwriting isn't very readable but I doubt this journal will ever see the light of day.

I'm growing more and more unsettled the further I tread these nature littered floors. Several questions have come across me since the start of my journey: How did I know where to start looking? How did I know how to find this path? How do I know where I'm going? Why am I so confident that I'm heading in the right direction? I've tried to blame it all on the moon, on the fact that she led me astray, but I feel her cry out in anguish at my accusations, and it hurts to have her cry. The only answer that keeps pestering at me is that I've already been here before. It used to look different, but I've definitely been here before. Why can't I remember? Why CAN I remember? There's a growing anxiety within me that is making me tremble as I write, despite the moon giving me such warmth. Why is she so warm? Isn't that particular job bestowed to the sun?

I am frightened out of my mind. What were the words of those people who so unabashedly told me the truth about this place? Were they telling me to find it, or to go back to it? Have I been here too long? I'm going out of my mind. But I won't think about that anymore, I have a goal, and I will reach it. Like old 'pa used to say, "there is no courage without fear", and this is a demonstration of it.

Is this a journal to document my travels, or merely a scrapbook of all my thoughts, trying to convince myself to keep going? Well, like I said, this journal will never see the light of day, so it doesn't matter.

I have to erase the date on my first entry, it doesn't seem accurate anymore. Day 1

Day ?

The sky has turned; it's no longer dark. It's getting brighter. It's getting warmer. There are barely any clouds. The moon is abandoning me. The trees are kinder to me. The littered floors gradually seem to have been paved into comfortable paths through this forest full of life and light. It's too bright, how do I manage it? I now remember why I turned back those other times; I hate this change, I hate this contradiction, I hate this revelation. It's too bright. I need the clouds to come back.

Take me back to my dark moon.

I've Never Known What Day It Is

The moon has never been dark. I was describing it as my only source of light in every entry, but like I said, my brain is empty, with only an echo bouncing around in it, so forgive me for my contradictions.

The sky has turned into the most beautiful shades of orange and red and purple; a sunset, or perhaps dawn. It feels more like a sunset though, I want it to be.

I'm not sure I know how to get out of here - I'm not sure I know how to get it out. I've been here so many times, I've already found this place in the past, but as I said I would do also this time round, everytime I found it I'd attempt to suffocate it with all the might I could muster. Something within me must have rebelled against me killing it, suffocating is not a very hard job to finish, here it is; as alive and as beautiful as ever.

I'm starting to suspect this is dawn. There's not a cloud in sight. It frightens me, the inevitable brightness that is to come. How do I manage it? I never seemed to know. It hurts to look at, it hurts to suppress.

The sky is bright, but I still see and feel the moon. She hasn't disappeared, she is merely showing me her light source, and it's so warm.

The echo in my brain, the first mention of this place, is now so clear in my mind. I want to write those words down, I always feel like I'm on the verge of forgetting them. I see old 'pa's face in front of me, with that look and tone of stern kindness. By this point of his life, the old man had been completely spent of his strengths, and was on the brink of slipping away into an endless confusion. Yet as he said these things to me, there was a clearness in his gaze I hadn't seen even when he still had his health.

"You are the moon, my boy."

That was his simple statement, the loudest echo of them all.

My answer was defiant as usual, quick to not accept any words from any authority above my own.

"I am not the moon. I don't need anyone else's light in order to shine. And before you speak again, I'm most definitely not the sun; I'm neither bright, nor warm. And I'm not as subtle as the stars. So spare me your speech Grampa, I've already recited it all." I answered him, not giving him even one chance to interrupt me.

My old 'pa has always been a fountain of patience, having to raise someone as prickly as me, so he listened without any wish of interrupting, and with a wrinkled and hard hand on my shoulder he replied in like manner:

"Your heart is the moon, my boy; even in darkness it does not lose its light, because it borrows from the tenderness you have tried to keep hidden, tried to keep quiet, the endurance that keeps you alive even now as you stand before me. You have a great amount of light within you, but it's so bright that you don't know how to manage it, how to face it. Life has treated you cruelly, little one, so you try to treat it cruelly back. You are so unaware of your own potential and kind heartedness, you use fists and glares to beat those warm things into submission. But you have failed. You fail every day. If only you would allow yourself to, you could tame it, not suffocate it, and just like the moon, let it shine back into the world."

I was trying very hard to view his words as nonsense, but it was too late, they had already begun echoing.

"First you say I am the moon, then you say I could be. Pick one, old man."

"The moon is there even on the cloudiest night. You have many clouds in front of you my boy, but you are still behind them. Clouds have not been of much help to you, they are a shield made of water, made of nothing. No wonder you keep getting hurt. You are the moon. Unlike the sun, everyone looks at the moon with no fear, because they can, because they know they won't get hurt when they do. With all its light and mysterious warmth, you are the moon. You are beautiful my boy; everyone sees it but you."

As I sit here, my pencil on its last breath, gazing at the clear and colourful sky, I'm letting the warmth engulf me for longer than usual, for the first time in my life completely submitting myself to it. I've found this mysterious place within me, but this time I won't journey back. I won't let the water in my eyes condense into clouds, I'll simply let it fall, and when night comes by again, my moon will be as clear as ever.