Tresses of the night sky hang over her face, obscuring her features. She is madness, and she calls the turbulent waves, forming a riptide beneath the surface. She is half-full, half-empty, this moon. Is she waxing or waning, growing or receding? If the goddess of the night is feminine, where is the masculine at midnight? Does the masculine build as we approach the dawn, or is that illusory, too?
Spiralling across the millenia, Luna is shod in myth, adorned in archetype, cloaked in men’s visions of who she must be. Yet she is free. They can name her and place that reduction into their carefully delineated box, but that is their construction. They would make her a “she”. She is not a she, nor a he, nor an it. Luna is one, whole, in unison. Luna is me. I shine with my own light. I move with my own gravity. I change my face every evening, glowing more or less brilliantly according to my whims, my needs.
Under night tresses, half of my face is obscured. As I reflect on the meniscus that separates light from shadow, I wonder whether I am evaporating or condensing. I feel the dance of yin and yang within, ever chaotic, ever harmonious, raw, refined, mysteriously swirling.
Do not call me “he”. Do not call me “she”. Call me “Luna”, for I am the singular “we” and the plural “me”. Know that. Or don’t. Either way, I am free.
