I read The Birth of Heracles and above me moves the blood moon, a sliver of brightness slowly being eaten by rusty red roundness. I need to write before it is completely diminished, but suddenly my head is blank.
Children. That's what I told myself earlier- I will think of my children. The next set of blood moons will be in 2023. What will my children be like then? Will they be nonexistent; will I even have a family? I can suddenly see myself in my mind's eye: almost 30, looking up at the sky and thinking back to my younger self typing away at 2 in the morning, dreaming of the future. Is it such a bad thing?
The moon is such an ancient thing. How strange it is, to see the body hang in the heavens. I only wish I could see the stars over the highway lights. Las estrellas me habrían dado esperanza.
Children. That's what I told myself earlier- I will think of my children. The next set of blood moons will be in 2023. What will my children be like then? Will they be nonexistent; will I even have a family? I can suddenly see myself in my mind's eye: almost 30, looking up at the sky and thinking back to my younger self typing away at 2 in the morning, dreaming of the future. Is it such a bad thing?
The moon is such an ancient thing. How strange it is, to see the body hang in the heavens. I only wish I could see the stars over the highway lights. Las estrellas me habrían dado esperanza.
