When I was younger, my hair would start to curl in curls on my head so long that I would sit and stare at myself in the duplicate. My huge unsuspecting eyes caught the thinking figure in the magic flash of the glass, and I was confused.
The part of me that looked at my figure was almost amazed by the mysterious vessel it contained. My frame seemed to me strange in its limits, and its form always seemed to me so surprising, as if it really no longer belonged to me. Or maybe I no longer belong to him?
Often, through the remnants of tears on my cheek, my eyes could see the bruises and marks of what appeared to be a small structure of my first-order soul, horrified by the damage to my pores, my skin, and my bones. ; The mass of my blood and muscles might want to hit hard with a stick.
I always remember being amazed at how quickly my skeleton wanted to heal itself and how my physical pain could stop. After a while I taught myself a way to numb the emotional pain, and then I sat for hours, wondering where it went and why now I couldn’t stop it completely, but still groping weakly somewhere in the dark depths. To wake up. . up misery
My teenager also talked loudly and got away from the noise of anger and complaining with the help of wearing my underwater hearing protection while showering, the best balm for silence that I knew at the time. Yet even here he was by no means safe from the beating.
You could spend some time looking for different people. The shape and form of man immediately fascinated me. I was always at a loss, if the people around me carried in themselves identical stones of pain, just like me? I wanted to understand what we kept in it, and how the river of deep numbness must be, so that one can hide the pebbles of pain, so that others do not see it now.
I also began to notice the moon. On the farm where we lived, the full moon seemed to light up the entire night sky after the turbines were turned off. But somehow I felt that the moon had a secret. We may not want to see all that at all. Half of her was constantly hiding. I felt this long before I got into technical literacy.
Being a younger adult, married to the same brutality and emotional abuse I had known since my teenage years, I seemed to wake up the whole moon again through blurry eyes through the use of tears and the experience dawned on me. ; The moon is there to reveal to us who we really are. On the dark face of the moon we hide our pebbles so that no one understands them. No one should see. Assume that the pebbles are correctly hidden there.
Obviously, we give our positive side to the ring because we instinctively understand that it is part of the self and that it is desirable for mortals who share the region of the globe. They also give us their silver faces most of the time, so we can all, in fact, constantly maneuver them in a one-dimensional sideways dance around everything different.
But sometimes we ignore the stairs or the sounds that startle us until the dark face surprises ourselves and the alternate moons around us with a tumultuous dance of anger, resentment, anxiety, fanaticism, violence and judgment. At the same time, for a long time after those mistakes, everything was so still that it seemed as if the melody must stop altogether, but we slowly licked our toes and became members of the dance again, albeit temporarily.
Motivated but unknown to me, this post-autumn equinox once again stirred my memory of that young lady before the aftershock. I wanted to understand what was in the shadows of the moon, and so I could go there.
The international player from the dark side of the moon can feel very lonely. Everywhere there are forgotten and repressed parts of the lying shadow hanging in desolation. Pain, grief, anger, pain, anxiety and many different things that do not make sense, live here in a country that does not recognize it, like the illegitimate youth left in the deserted streets of the city of shadows.