Dust of the moon

It is possible you see more clearly in the dark. You know that's what it's for - that darkness - to give your eyes a rest.  To let you feel your way.

You use it, that darkness.  Your hand is guided as you smudge the lines of shadows cast here.  The perimeter whispers to you.  You know where you are now.

A vessel, a sacred bowl.

In your hand, a black silk ribbon you always hold.  You let go and it unfurls, falling without fear.

Always the bearer of the perfect gift, it returns with just what you need.  

You breathe in a new tide, a weave of silver ore you must have longed for.

Understood

Elusive but unintentionally so.  Nearly invisible - that part was on purpose.  You've managed the storms and made discernment your profession.  As if your life depended on it.  A life lived only in the moonlight, a swirling whirlpool of anticipating and persuading.  Silent and quiet survival.

You realized you were a mermaid when you woke up holding the knife in your hand, ready to split your tail into two legs you could stand on.  A double edged sword, no sheath.  Your hands bleed as they free your right leg from your left.  You will be more of yourself now.  

And so you slay your dragons

You wake up with a blister - not on your foot - you can still advance comfortably.

It's on your hand.  No memory of holding a sword or wielding a dagger, you've somehow managed to carry the trace of a battle you don't remember fighting.  

Typical.

The laborious, involved, lengthy process is actually a snap of the fingers if you let it be.  Like taking off a winter coat you've worn too long.  Seasons confused, you thought it was still necessary.  Vital to your survival even.  You're amazed to realize it actually belongs in the closet, only to be removed when the seasons change again.

It's just a blister, right?  You are aware of it, but barely more.  Somehow it has managed to nearly heal while it remained invisible.  Or maybe it was never really that bad.

In any case, something has been conquered without you even being aware of it.

Do you remember how to celebrate?  Do you remember how to give thanks?  Honor the dead and burned with silent reverence and gratitude.  In the light of the fire, dragons are butterflies.

Artifacts

You take them out of the shrine and carry them away. Purpose in your steps, you leave them at the alter when you finally make it there. It was a long walk. A pilgrimage, you realize later.  Rosebushes along the way to let you know you're still on track.  As alone as you feel, you must believe that too is an illusion.  Someone must have planted those roses.

You watched that alter, you held your breath. Unseen hands burned what was no longer needed and breathed life into what was left.  Incense.  Ritual older than this life.

You could smell the flowers before you could see them. Before you turned, seconds before you walked away.  Lavender - oceans of it.  Healing in waves, fields that bloom once a year and no more. 

The sun is rising

Truth be told, it has been a long night.

Not a bad night, just a long one.  An endless dinner, so many courses and then the drive home.  You're lucky to have made it back in one piece.  Pitch black because of course they only light the roads in cities - who needs to see where they're going between cities?

Red lines through city names tell you the darkness returns.

And yet, somehow, you make it back.

You wash the remnants of the day off, you can't go to bed if you don't.

You wake and make wishes.  Not penny-in-a-well wishes.  These are whispered wishes, vibrations received and perceived even though you are alone and you have no coins to toss into the source.

You don't wonder if these will come true.  As soon as you spoke the words you knew they would.