The Maze of the Moon
There’s always a risk when you whisk yourself off into the world. You dance and sneak and stumble through shadow and sunlight, stars in your eyes and demons in your head. Everything screams at you, everything beckons and begs. You twist and you turn, over brambles, through mud, under sea and stone, across cloud and storm. You make meals of the wind. You turn roses into wine. You scrawl runes on the walls of the world and draw maps on the palms of your hands.
This is how it is when you refuse to stay in one place. And it’s impossible to stay in one place. Everything is spinning. Everything is vibrating.
Something claws at the back of your eyes, something you cannot ignore, something you can befriend or belittle, something you can fight or follow. You can swallow your fear, but you can never digest it. You can swallow your pride, but it will always show on your skin.
When you’re lost, you desperately reach out for anything that can steady you, pull you in, keep you safe. You wrap yourself in loneliness and melancholy. You wear your fear like a suit of armor. You wield your insecurity like a sword of flame. When you’re lost in the world, your own demons can be a comfort. They shield you like amber and whisper words of terrible, horrific comfort in your ears. Your heart is your compass, pounding in your chest like dynamite, roaring like the midnight prairie, pulling you further and further into the thorns and weeds.
The world is a mad place. The roads are treacherous and deceptive. There is always a risk when you wander away from home. All you can do is keep stumbling, wandering down the winding paths of the night.
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