fiction

Dark Moon Letter: A Warning. {fiction}

 

Dear friends,

I find myself compulsively writing these letters. It is the only thing that still makes sense in a world that increasingly feels like a B-grade sequel of Groundhog Day. The only way I know that time is actually passing is by watching the waxing and waning of the moon, now a forced ritual I cannot escape.

Every day as the sun sets, I imagine being able to decide to do anything else. Going out for dinner, going dancing, walking the streets of the city, visiting art galleries, drinking wine. But every night I find myself sitting in my little garden, my feet digging into the soil, watching the moon rise over the mountains and slowly glide across the sky until it’s time for it to disappear into the dark waters of the Atlantic.

Another night passes, and another glaring day arrives, illuminating all the dirty teacups and overflowing ashtrays that have become the silent witnesses of my psychosis. The only nights I do not have to watch Luna’s passing is on the New Moon when she becomes invisible, and these are the nights on which I am instead compelled to write you these letters.

They’re like messages, whispered to me in the wind of dark times ahead. Darkness only I am aware of, and I need to warn you about it. All of you. But I am too scared to speak frankly, in fear of the guardians of the machine-like system finding out who I am and what I know. I know that my location is far too easy to track.

Baby, what did I tell you about the house being bugged?

They can hear us making breakfast, they can hear us making love.

Excuse me a minute, Big Brother’s at the door

And he’s ready to party like it’s 1984.

Anaïs Mitchell’s voice drifts from the lounge. The music comforts me, but the words send a chill down my spine.

I am making you mine, my divine volunteer, and I’m flying you over the border

And he can’t recall where it all fell apart

Was it north of Medina, or south? Where the prophecy ends and the politics start

Where the weapon went into his mouth.

I have no fear left. I am not hiding from you anymore, because I am one of you. This is a message meant for us both, and you and I must both hear it. I don’t give a damn anymore if you know where I live. This message must be delivered directly to the decision-makers, the war-makers, the money-makers, the rich, the powerful, the elite, the privileged, the sleeping. My people.

So here is the warning: Soon we will be running through the street, tearing off our clothes and ripping our own skin to shreds with our fingernails, howling to the moon and screaming, “Gaia, Gaia, why have you forsaken us?”

When will it rain? When will the wind stop blowing? Will the violent rays of the sun ever be softened again by a foggy haze? No, the southeaster viciously whips up the sand to slowly weather away the outer layers of our skin, leaving us unprotected, like newborn pigs squealing before slaughter.

The earth has been raped for long enough, and she has had enough. She is coming down on us in full force, annihilating the cancer that has poisoned her rivers and oceans, ripped out her green lungs, and kept on feasting on her beating heart.

But now she is like a monster that has woken up in a rage at her children violating her so cruelly. And she is out for revenge.

She is preparing to start the dance like the blackest demon goddess, crushing the skulls of her enemies beneath her feet. Those of us who can see her ready herself, pull herself up to her full height, baring her gashed breasts, her mutilated womanhood, her severed clitoris, shudder and rejoice.

She is bleeding from every orifice, and we have even cut her a few new ones in which we happily fucked her further once the holes intended for fucking became rancid. She is leaking black oil from between her legs, no longer willing to bear life. Now, she has become the goddess of death and destruction, the goddess we created with our blasphemy and idolatry.

When did we last celebrate the seasons? When did we last thank her for sending a sunrise every day? When did we last stand and look at her beauty, awestruck by her power and majesty?

No, we enjoy it for a season or a day and then get into our fossil-fuel-driven vehicles of destruction, back to the city to chase fame and fortune, status and money, cheap thrills and expensive drugs. We’re happy to consume her like we consume everything else. There is nothing sacred about our morning hikes, our picnics, our trance dances and music festivals.

How is logical thought going to help you, sir, when the witch casts her circle around your feet and you are bound by your own shame? How are you going to reason yourself out of a crucifixion when you are the one building the cross? How will you escape your own judgment once you recognize what you have done?

When will you realize that there is no merciful god waiting to absolve you from your sins? You will have to look yourself in the eye and weigh your own soul against that feather. I have seen it, I have done it, and I have seen how much I am lacking. How fractured and broken my soul is. How deep does the abyss go?

So deep, so deep.

There is no redemption that will lift you out of that hole. You have to claw your way out, step by godforsaken step.

But once you start taking those steps, the clouds start swirling like a magical black cape. She sees, she acknowledges. She recognizes a true hunger for life. A steward. And she rewards, but on her own terms.

You will not be able to go back to your comfortable, symmetrical manor built on sane principles of science and logic.

There is a mischievous leer in her rewards — is she helping you out of the abyss, or are you so confused and intoxicated by her presence that you don’t notice the steps are going down instead of up? That you are sinking ever deeper into her dark underbelly, her womb burning with ancient molten metal and rock?

The devil is creating the world now, we have had our chance in the light and we wasted it. We keep on telling ourselves comforting tales of a new age, an enlightened age, a coming of age. A blooming into consciousness. More energy that makes the creation wheel turn. The wheel of fortune. The good and the bad.

It will get better, and it will get much, much worse. The intensity will become more severe, until even the most asleep amongst us will wake up, screaming in anguish, only to realize that it was the dream that was paradise and you have finally woken up to the nightmare of reality.

If messages of love and acceptance and forgiveness do not move us to transform, maybe we need messages of death and destruction and decay. Maybe then we will finally listen and start running.

Run, my friends.

Run to the water. Water is life, and there is not much left.

Run, like your life depends on it. All life depends on it, and it would be global suicide to ignore the plight of Mother Gaia any longer.

She is screaming in pain. Wake up, I beg you. It is our only hope.

Until the next dark moon.

All my love,

Maria

***

Maria Cronjé is a writer of dreams and fantasy, designer and traveler. Don’t take anything she says seriously, but you should know that she never jokes.

***

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