Crush the Wind
The moon is alive with passion as her supernatural glow seeps through the crack in my curtains and rouses me from my troubled sleep. Entranced, I silently slip from beneath my covers and creep to the window, pulling open the curtain with ease. I stand, captivated, as she extends an invisible arm and softly beckons me to follow her. Her silver, opalescent face glows with the secrets of times gone by, the reticent knowledge of all that there is to know. Without question, I slip on my boots over my pyjama bottoms, noiselessly fly down the stairs, and walk purposefully out of the back door into the pearly moonlight.
I am not fully aware of myself. The grass is damp and crunches slightly under my feet. The world is a beautiful black and white portrait, painted with shades of grey and illuminated by the sparkling reflections of moonlight upon dewy grass. I am unnervingly calm as I open the back gate and slide through, beginning my journey across the silent meadow which backs onto my house.
Hills glisten in the distance, towering above like almighty deities, observing every detail of life which plays out before them like a pantomime through the day. I begin to run. I run across field after field, summoned by the power of the hills before me and the incandescent light of the moon above. As my eyes adjust to the midnight gloom, stars begin to appear in the navy sky, tentatively at first, like tiny pin-prick dots of light, quickly followed by proud, gleaming orbs, guiding me towards a destination that I do not yet know.
As I approach the hills, my pace slows to a fast walk. I feel power gathering beneath my feet. As I climb higher, over grass and shale and rocks, I feel the world begin to mould to my will. I jump between the rocks, over holes in the ground, across loose sediment upon the path. I will not fall. I cannot fall. I am in charge. As I saunter over the peak of the tallest mountain, I pause to revel in the beauty of the fantastic sight before me.
Directly ahead lies a lake, navy blue in the gentle light and surface rippling softly in the slight breeze. Hills stand tall in a ring encircling the lake, protecting its beauty from the ugly world outside this sheltered haven. The moon hangs upon its invisible hook in the sky just above the peak of the furthest hill, bathed in the illusive afterglow of bright specks that are stars which burned their last millions of years ago.
In the quiet of the night, when time seems to be frozen and the inevitable dawn is light years away, I own this place. I can hold up one hand and crush the very wind which soars through the valleys and scatters particles of light through the grass and across the surface of water. I can scream so loudly that my angered voice reverberates around the protective enclosure, shattering rocks and turning the gentle ripples into mighty waves. I can unhook the delicate moon from its perch and smash it; I can turn the mountains into volcanoes which erupt savagely and cover the haven with their smoking lava.
Instead I sit upon the highest rock of the upmost peak, silently observing, until the red frame of the hills opposite warns of the approaching dawn. Then I run, somewhat more carefully, down mountainside and across the fields, covering mile after mile until I am once again at my back gate and the sun has robbed the sky of the moon and stars. Power, used with spite and vengeance, can shatter the most beautiful things. The world is ugly enough without stripping it of the few natural treasures it has left.