The Artifical and the Sane
How can a reflective surface give off so much light?
The wetness of the night.
Crisp. Clear. Brilliant.
And more alluring than the photo collider shooting its load all over you.
My light is pleasing to behold, the other like a pot of molten gold. The Church, saturated with brightness, as if to shout:
“I still exist!”
“I am your bulwark against the chaos of the night.”
You didn’t use to fear the moon this close to Samhain. You used to honour me.
The Dead Moon. The Mulch Moon. The Rot Moon.
The Even-so-I’m-bright Moon.
You honour me now. So do it properly.
Go out from the light. Let me guide you through the darkness.
See? That’s better. Now, allow me to enter.
The moon is closer to humanity. The light you have inside, reflecting divine sun. But you have come to deny it, creating suns of your own making, illuminating your world, refusing the dark. Hurting, harming your eyes.
This is the light your eyes are meant to see. Looking at the sun makes your blind, and you have turned your world into a labyrinth of suns, stealing your sight.
I am the Dead Moon, reminding you that I am the closest thing to the divine spark within, found inside decaying matter.
My light is healing. The sun’s is too much.
You need more moonlight in your lives. How do you create moons, and not suns, in your society?
How do you defuse (not infuse) it with healing light?
By embracing the night and leaving the garishly lit church behind.
This is how you can receive the pure light of divinity, through me.
A reflection of the full moon of your soul, reflecting the divine spirit of Everywhen.
Why silver can kill werewolves.
Why the silver of the moon can transmute our purely bestial nature, remembering the God in Man.
Not gods walking on the Earth, harnessing the sun, that’s madness.
They are sun-addled, while you are a lunatic.
The Artificial and the Sane.
Through the moon, we know ourselves, we see ourselves. Not a distorted image, streaks of dissolved grandeur glowing with false promise in the outskirts of our vision.
You turn everything up so bright, you forget to see. The smallest details lost in light cum, violating all your pores, smearing your eyes with notfulness.
No wonder you are blind.
You have eyes, but forget to see.
The Artificial and the Sane.
The moon does not turn you into a werewolf when you leave the glaring light of the church. The moon sets you free.
The moon is thee.
If this be a wolf, ’tis not slayed by silver, it is of moonsilver born.
The moon does not force a skin upon you, it lets you shed the one you’re forced to wear.
A civilization of were-yous, blinded to their own existence in a sun-crazed civilization.
I am Luna.
I am Lucifer.
The Bringer of the True Light.
That which casts no shadow.
Yet shadows still there are.
Turn back into yourself, the Lunatic.
The Reflecting Disc of Now.