Red Moon

The wind whips all about my small abode, awakening me with a shaking force borne of nature’s wrath. The brightness of the new day is shielded only by dark curtains hung in my one window. It begins to fill the room as I reluctantly rise from my single bed and quickly smother the bit of glowing warmth remaining in the furnace. I remove my woolen gloves (though I’m not sure what good they serve now with all the well-worn holes) and pick up my journal and pencil to note today’s data. This is the ninety-eighth book I’ve begun, and I wonder if I will still be alive to complete another after the pages of this one are full. It's a new year, a new day. The sun’s persistent brightness is a constant reminder today, January 4, 2050, may be my last. Without a doubt, the days which remain are numbered.

Though the morning arrives in penetrating, relentless cold, the day’s temperature quickly begins to escalate to a higher level of heat and humidity. Despite the heat of the day, I'll repeat what menial tasks I do each and every day until I'm able to venture outside to bask in what nature and reality I can see beneath the brilliance of a red moon. As usual, I will expect to find no other save me though each time I leave my sanctuary, I am left to wonder if any other living creature wanders this formidable earth, and if so, where they might be? Brazil? Australia? Canada? China? The far side of what remains of the white cliffs? I would dearly love to know the answers.

Indeed, to be able to converse and exchange such pleasantries with another is an expectation of which I dare not dream though the thought teases the imagination's boundaries. Perhaps we could share a cup of birch tea and exchange notes. I am afraid, however, I am still very much alone, and it remains an ongoing challenge adjusting to a solitary life. It’s been over eight years since I last stumbled upon another. It was on a moon-filled, star-studded night while I made my solitary trek to the edge of the cliffs. Like me, the other person trudged along the path, appearing as frightened and as wary of me as I was of him. I knew he scavenged for food and shelter, as such things are scarce. It was strange, was it not? One would have thought we'd have have been ecstatic to see the other, but no, instead, fear superseded to encompass all thought and each chose the path of least resistance, steering clear of the other. I regret it now......regret it with my entire lonely existence. Why did I not acknowledge the other man with a gesture of good intention? Why did I not offer to share my shelter and what food I had? I wish desperately I had done so. Wish I had exhibited traits of the person I once had been: a kind and benevolent, yet strong human being. The fact I’ll never have another opportunity to share such things with another being haunts the recesses of my mind while the longing to do so reverberates in the depths of my heart.

This world has become quite frightening, more so because two lonely souls chose entirely different paths in lieu of gravitating to the other. We were like two ships passing in the night. That was once upon a time a favored cliché, was it not? Some bit of poetry, unknowingly prophetic, which filled the literary shelves in days long past. I’d know precisely from when and whom the saying was derived if my guaranteed technological equipment had not long since burnt out. So much for the extra warranty I purchased for a handsome bit of change. It's fortuitous I foresaw the inevitable demise and packed ample pen and paper. If not for the age-old method of writing and recording, I think I would have long ago gone stark, raving mad. Forgive me please as I stifle my laughter. It is many a day I wonder if I have already lost most, if not all, of my faculties.

Though I may be well on the road to madness, I am still able to appreciate what little of the earth’s beauty remains. The sun has finally lowered in the horizon, so it is time to venture outside. I do so with relish, eager to breathe in what I can see. It won’t be long before I'll need to go in search of more sustenance: nuts, berries, and other items. The thought of doing such always fills me with dread. My fear is a palpable thing for I'm afraid of losing my way or not managing to make it back home before the sun rises. Each day, the blazing sun encroaches, too close for comfort.

This evening, the view does not fail to amaze again as I look out over the massive ocean. Even though the white cliffs of Dover, once momentous and regal in their beauty, are practically immersed beneath the waves, there remains recognizable beauty. The red moon’s brilliance floods the formidable evening sky, helping to illuminate my path to allow me to venture farther.

As I move across the rugged terrain, my mind is filled with the thought of my impending, inescapable doom. Could it be that the universe is angry and loathes the sight of all humans it now spies on the earth? If so, I cannot fault it for we humans deserve its wrath. We were overly careless and exceedingly neglectful of our earthly gifts and treasures, while being undeniably selfish in our quest, always seeking better accolades. No, I do not blame the universe, but I still wish it would not take aim at our beloved and beautiful landmarks. They are devoid of blame, innocent of man’s most foul deeds. I dare not imagine what the next decade – or even the next day – may bring. How long will the white cliffs endure the onslaught of the sun or ocean? My hope has receded much like the lush green land which once covered the land.

The void is real, encompassing. I feel lost, teetering on the precipice of losing it all. Instead of finding joy in existence each day, I am filled with fear of what will come or the unknown. Fear and loneliness are my constant companions. I haven’t heard or seen a bird – or any other animal for that matter - for so long. It grows difficult to recount the beauty of the lark’s song or Chopin's Etudes. What more can happen or be lost? Only one thing is certain: we will not sustain longevity in this darkening wasteland we call home.

I arrive back at my dome, ready for the warmth of the tiny furnace as temperatures continue to fall. It is a good thing I am an introvert by nature, normally choosing to spend time with me, myself, and I as that is my only option now. I’ll continue to write, often nonsensical notes (like this one) to imaginary friends (like you). In my world of fantasy, I’ve already published my fifty-fourth novel. Gee but can you believe it? My fifty-second book is a contender for the Pulitzer Prize. Yes, there are most certainly perks to this imaginary, solitary existence.

I take a final, lingering glance at the brilliance of the full, red moon, knowing it may be the last time. In my mind, I am thankful for another day and night, but in my heart, I am weary to the bone. I am left with only one thought: what will the ‘morrow bring?