On the Moon Side of the World

Introduction, or the Approach of Dawn

Introduction, or the Approach of Dawn

Autumn. There're several things I despise about autumn. For instance, it's cold. And if you live in San Francisco, Africa or wherever the adjective 'cold' isn't used to describe the weather, then I can stick my naked ass right up the sneering sun's nouse, and you'll see if it shines the same ever again. Some people were just born with a certain advantage. I mean it's not like I was asked to choose my parents; I was just thrown into their arms and left at their mercy somewhere or other in the middle of Poland. Okay, it could be worse you say. Well, thank you for that highly enlightening information. But as I don't live in a villa that's overlooking a sea, and as the average temperature at my hometown definitely doesn't happen to score over 20 degrees during the year, I give myself a right to complain a little.

Then in the picture comes school. At least here we all are pretty equal. School is a fact universally acknowledged, nevertheless despised by 99% of the population (I didn't bother to check the actual statistics, however, I've been educated, I believe, well enough to make quite accurate estimations). I didn't come here to brag about the unimportance of education, as it does come in handy from time to time (even though I still claim that the reproduction of worms in biology class could've been spared). It's just that I really don't think school pairs well with a student's health. The number of tests, essays, homework, knowledge, etc. thrown at a regular teen is big enough to crush his/her dreams of a decent future, then all of the effort is magically murdered and our teen finds himself/herself working at McDonald's for $10 per hour or whatever they pay. Nothing wrong with having a job, besides someone has to serve those tasty burgers and french fries and the mere thought of them makes me gag. Enough. I'm just not looking forward to spending 8 hours a day in school, and overall, studying on 4 hours of sleep every single day for another year. Of course, there's a promise of summer holidays in the end, yet with one having just ended (and I always say that summer is way too intimate to be recalled any place else than in your memory), the pain becomes a reality one has to face. Besides, there isn't actually much to look forward to in order to remain hopeful. Sure, next year will bring trips to the US, Italy and other places, yet I'm quite reluctant to make plans of that kind, and I definitely do not get excited beforehand. My issue with plans is just that they make one take tomorrow for granted, while it hasn't been offered yet. I'm fond of chaos. Chaos, chaotic, chaotic. Yes, world despite all those laws and orders ruling it is a chaotic place. Some things happen, some things do not happen, you have no way of working it out as there are no rules to it.

So is there a point to write that piece of (serious, very serious) literature on that rainy grey afternoon? I can't know everything, yet from a certain point of view, there really isn't any point. Like I write this in hopes of one day becoming a published writer with loads of shiny dollars in their bank account, however, we all know how that works out. Let's take that old sport Scott Fitzgerald into consideration. He thought himself a total failure to the point that he actually attempted suicide, and yes, you've guessed it, he failed at that too. But then once Death finally got her hands on him, and he's resting in his brand new grave, people suddenly realise that he wasn't that bad at all, and really what did our Scott have from it? Just the knowledge that his genius was ahead of his time. And that's if there's any form of life after death. Now, he's probably just a corpse, his flesh having been eaten by worms and other nasty bugs way before I have graced the Earth with my presence, and yeah, he surely doesn't know that half of the population have to cram 'The Great Gatsby' so they won't fail English at school. But let's imagine I'm a bestselling author. What in the end do I really get from it? Well, being a writer I'm just twice as likely to commit suicide. Very optimistic. But honestly, try searching up writers who committed suicide and you'll be surprised to find so many of them. It may be that depression makes one's writing outstanding, albeit is it really worth it to take your own life so posthumously your book will sell better? And yes, I'm staring at you Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf...

I just decided to grace their souls with a brief pause in their memory.

I want to create; I need to. My fingertips are itching. Restless, the keyboard sings with me. I tap, tap, tap away a hymn. Just to connect, to let it go and find a flow. Dazzling as a kiss on a hot summer's eve, that's how my story ought to be. Have I found it? Have I not? Only time will tell. Let it judge, as it holds that sweet promise - generations; they are to come after me.

So... I've been always told not to begin a sentence with 'so'. Yet it kind of fills in that blank space quite nicely (another word I'm not allowed to use. Why do they restrict our language though? Let those words shape my life however they want, so...). I was born. Or I've been told I'd been born. I actually have no recollection of popping out of my mother's womb whatsoever. However, having been born, I had no choice but to grow up. So I did, I grew up. Or at least I've grown bigger, my limbs have stretched out over the years, I got my first period and second and third and then I've lost count, I also get to drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes, I've done that for years, not very legally though. Feeling like an utter child, instead of embracing my innocent infantilism, I act an adult. On with the show, let my foolishness delude me. I treat the world as my stage, life is but a mere play. Creating poetic nonsense, illusions remain within, after all, it's for a noble reason. Immorality. Can't lie about intelligence, therefore I play little games, they actually write themselves. Can't stand the rest, driven by a teenage temptation, I create a mess to clean up once I'm old enough to BE my age. Can't do this and that. I go to school out of the muss, I swim as it's an old routine, I breathe for I'm fearful to stop.

They told me I think I'm on the top of the world. I'm sorry I give out the impression. Shall I leave an invitation? You'll open it someday. Yes, welcome, make yourself at home! Hang around for a while, have a nibble of my life, take a sip of my mind! You don't like it here very much? It's a dark night, somewhere the rain falls, the party must go on. Thoughts dance the waltz, and fears follow their step, nightmares inebriate, they sing a ballad for me. Can you hear it? It's there, right in my brain.

Do let me sleep before dawn knocks on my door. Yet another morning is hanging around the corner. My good old friend, here we meet again.

That rambler at midnight? Was it a dream? Perhaps a confusion? Blues allowed the conclusion. Peculiar is the world. Unconsciousness of a poetic (chaotic) thought in a teenager rocked the night to its sound.

There's a bang. Someone's at the door. Let me walk outside. I take a step to another land.

Intoxication, such as seen only on the moon side of the world allowed the demons on my left hand to escape. Basking in the daylight, earthly consciousness must compose itself. Sobriety may judge the work of the early hours. But it doesn't understand. Now it's only a confused madness. Ignorance lets me carry on from dusk to dawn and from dawn to dusk. Two hemispheres are always at war, yet they never fight, drawn to the side as they must stand their ground. On with the show. There's scene one.

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(A/N: Hello everyone. I know this introduction may sound a little mad, but I've decided to experiment with my writing here. I'm not sure where to take this, but I have a few ideas that I want to develop. Hopefully, you'll enjoy.)