You see it all, don’t you, you peeping tom? Some nights you wake me by staring in my window wearing a big mischievous grin. Other nights you study me with a magnifying glass held up to your wide open eye. You are so obtuse, and impersonal. Should I call you Dr. Moon?
But, you see all. Who sleeps? Who doesn’t? Who reads (and what)? You see my dad getting up in the middle of the night and pouring Pepsi into a half empty jar of mayonnaise, only to place it back in the fridge and not remember it in the morning. You know all of our secrets, even the bad ones. You spy on lovers, and forbidden lovers. You see kids clutching teddy bears, afraid of the shadow that your light spells across their bedroom walls.
You see red and blue flashing lights, with flares. You also see headlights of taxi cabs, and blinking lights on airplanes filled with passengers that pull down the shades to block your access (how rude of them).
Mr. Moon, I would love to have coffee with you sometime. Share your stories with me, all of them. I want to know of the secret things you see… the polar bears, and the sleeping elephants. I want to know of the sad things you see, the reality that we weak little subjects always shut out. Don’t mince your words, tell me what you see! But also, tell me the beauty. Tell me of the lovers. Tell me of the waves lapping on the forgotten shore lit by the gleam of your face. Tell me of the lioness fearlessly giving birth to her cubs under your shield, far away from her pride. Give me hope, Mr. Moon.
Share your stories with me. I’m hungry for them.