Half Moon

There it hangs, a half moon, abandoned by someone in the corners of the western sky.

Above it, a grey-blue canvas stretches out, resembling a weathered piece of grey cloth more than the sky itself. A few feet below it, an inky darkness washes over, similar to a bottomless swamp, a landscape I know as the White Deer Plain. Before me, the city square unfolds in a surreal manner, its shadows wavering.

It is the color of dark bronze covered with rust, awkward and clumsy – the remains of a resigned plow's blade. The center seems on the verge of wearing through, leaking a muddy light.

I wait for it to sink or even to be picked up by someone.

However, like a dull and decaying relic, it remains there, not budging.

I find myself questioning why a full moon is always so luminous, so transparent, while this crescent moon is so murky, so dim!

I hunch over on the wooden bench, feet over a wooden table. Feeling something sticky on my legs, I know they must be stains left by someone's meal and drink, yet I remain still. But what of it? What of everything? The only thing I hear is the creaking of the tables and chairs, reminisce of the time when we sat there, watching our little child crawl onto the table, sparkles twinkling from his small shoes as he moved, his water bottle and toys atop the table.

A chilling sensation permeates my body, a queer feeling considering the sweltering heat. The grass carries a damp smell – a scent not belonging to it.

In the quiet of the square, I am not alone. There are three other souls present, albeit I cannot distinguish them. Two seem to be a boy and a girl in high school. The other, a child, perhaps in his early teens, is wearing a long, presumably dirty, white shirt. My gaze trails his silhouette, traversing a dimly lit path beside the pool. A few hours ago, children would have been racing on their scooters, their mothers trailing them with joyful, anxious eyes. I spot him ascend the steps, where people must have been dancing fervently before, and then he lies upon a darkened bench. His footfalls are light, like a lost sprite.

He must indeed be an unfortunate child, I muse.

The hubbub of the square has retreated to their homes, feeding sweet dreams of contentment. The vigor of the daylight has melted into the profound darkness of the night, blurring into an unending void of blackness. The only constant is the half moon, akin to an oil lamp on the brink of exhaustion, standing alone yet devoid of hope.

I listen to the melancholic tunes of Jacky Cheung, immersing in the bitter sentimentality of leaning against your arm. Regrettably, my inability to speak Cantonese prevents me from singing along with him. Instead, I replay readings, engulfing in the pain of Su Shi's thousand-year-old testament of dressing up, passage flowing through my eyes and coalescing within my heart like icy vestiges.

Roaming the wide square, I gaze at the frigid, chaotic stars filling the sky, unable to spot the star I regularly observed from the balcony. Tendrils of tears trickle down my face, their cold bitter taste on my lips.

In the distance, Yushan too is shrouded in a thick veil of obsidian, and I know you no longer bother to look at it, you must be sleeping too.

I find myself questioning, why must I drink?

Half moon.

The darkness of the night no longer scares me, for it is in this abyss that I find a semblance of peace.