The moon is universally beloved, no question. I, however, don’t know if I feel so sycophantic about the most fawned-over muse in the history of art and literature as it is currently waxing, which, like clockwork every month, makes me feel like the entire Pacific Ocean is vacationing in my ears. The light gets brighter, I wake up at 5 or 6 am for no good reason just feeling beat-up and unrested. It’s true that I have sung about the moon myself, but I was just longing to trade places with it temporarily. I wanted to slip its leash and get a break from pushing back against it all the time. I cry more easily, I often feel unequipped or hair-triggered. My sense of smell is heightened to the point of being unbearable and inappropriately distracting. Sometimes wanting to give up all the struggling and shoot both my feet off and quit everything. Does this sound like “woman problems” to you? You aren’t all wrong but probably only about 13 percent right. It’s more that I have a sleep-based temperament and the moon doesn’t care. It’s like I’m a little rubber foothold on the cliff face the moon is climbing to launch. It’s just perched there on my neck, bouncing a little, biding its time.
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