Moonbeams, Skylings, and Sundance: The Starlight Chronicles
By: Oluwakemi Amusan
Chapter 1: Awakening the Lunar Heart –
Or Just Plain Pre-Menstrual Syndrome?
As twilight’s whispers extinguish the solar flames, the celestial curtain parts, revealing the night sky’s majestic splendor. The Moon, a luminous sovereign, ascends her throne, casting a silvery glow upon the slumbering earth with her glowing orb; weaving a symphony of wonder that orchestrates mystery and enchantment.
Ancient myths stir to life, whispers of lunar deities and mystical powers echo across the expanse as the symbol of intuition and dreams, beckons dreamers, believers, and the curious, with her ethereal and path-illuminating radiance to the subconscious, where secrets and desires lie.
The night-blooming flowers unfold their petals to greet her. They bask in her gentle light. Their sweet fragrance wafts like a celestial perfume, entrancing all who breathe it in, in a glow of inspiration, romance, and passion, where they revel in the eternal dance between the known and unknown.
Yes, the night’s journey has begun – an odyssey of discovery, transformation, and transcendence, and the lotus blooms are unfurled.
The Moon gazes from her seat at the tail end of Taurus, and beholds the celestial ensemble accompanying her in this cosmic dance – The stars and planets that align in a grand symphony of light and sound, that paint the night with awe-inspiring twinkles and shimmers.
Her eyes linger on the Seven Sisters, the Pleiades, a constellation of starry maidens whose celestial music resonates throughout the expanse. They represent the harmony of the spheres who guide the tides of fate.
Tonight, they are sweetly aligned with Lilith and the Venusian friends, with whom they share laughter and giggles like a chorus of starry birds.
The Moon’s emotions swirl with a mix of maternal warmth at this. Yet, there is a wistful longing, and also a hint of envy as she beholds the carefree joy, vibrant beauty, and seductive charm of the Seven Sisters. She wonders what it would be like to be a maiden again, to experience the thrill of a first kiss, the ache of a first heartbreak, or the radiance of a first love.
Her gaze then falls upon Lilith, the celestial seductress, and she feels … inadequate. Lilith’s unbridled passion and unapologetic embrace of her sexuality reminds the Moon of a confidence that she lacks. That spark. That allure. That unapologetic defiance. Instead, she is just a people-pleasing person who is pregnant every four weeks. Little wonder Lilith despises her and her lukewarm ways. What was it Lilith called her the last time they had a tiff? Yes, Sellout! Allegedly, she, the Moon, sets womankind aback.
She wishes. Oh, the Moon wishes she had the strength of Lilith. She wishes she could also be the intriguing icon of empowerment, authenticity, and rebellion that Lilith is. But she is much too soft and much too warm to command such autonomy. She is much too agreeable, and much to conscientious to challenge societal conventions. Only Lilith has that power. Only Lilith has that courage to forge her own path and inspire generations of women to stand up for their rights and embrace their inner strengths.
But then, Lilith doesn’t get to enjoy the bliss of surrender that she, the Moon, gets to enjoy when she is with the Sun, does she? So, though she can’t win all, she wins at love. Is it love, though? Lilith insists it’s only support. And who gets to play a supporting role if not a constant second fiddle like her?
Why couldn’t she be tough instead of a nurturing walkover who relishes putting other people’s needs ahead of her own? Why couldn’t she be strong? Why couldn’t she be independent? Why couldn’t she be unapologetic? At her bravest moment, she had confronted Lilith, with her supposed happiness, but is this happiness? Torn between these conflicting aspirations, the Moon begins to wail in a haunting song, her lunar lament echoing through the celestial expanse.
The Ever-Pregnant Moon gazes upon her own reflection, her luminescent curves a constant reminder of her celestial purpose. Yet, in this moment, she can’t help but feel like her fullness is a burden, her rounded shape a far cry from the sleek, slender crescent she once was. She longs for a form that is desirable, not just necessary, a shape that would be celebrated for its beauty, not just its utility.
As she beholds Venus’s radiant beauty, the Moon feels a pang of insecurity, a deep-seated longing to be seen as lovely, to be cherished for her form, not just her function. Venus’s curves seem to dance in the light, effortlessly graceful, effortlessly pretty. In contrast, the Moon’s shape feels weighty and considerable, a constant reminder of her role as a container for the Sun’s light.
But oh, the injustices she suffers! The world below says, “Look at that fat ass in the sky with her chubby cheeks,” and blames her for every lunacy they suffer during her fullness. And then, they have the audacity to say, “Oh, the Moon isn’t out tonight,” when she chooses to hide behind the clouds. Ungrateful earthlings!
The mothers teach their kids, “The moon has no light, that’s just the Sun shining on her.” Oh, please! As if she needs reminding of her dependence on the Sun’s radiance. She loves surrendering to the Sun, but maybe Lilith has a point – maybe it would be great to own her own vitality and radiate a light that is hers alone.
In these moments, the Moon envies Venus’s twinkling, dainty style, wishing she had a light that didn’t rely on the Sun’s mercy. But for now, she remains the Ever-Pregnant Moon, her phases dominated by the Sun’s rays.
Angered by the incessant whining of the Moon, Uranus, the cosmic pimp and wildest of the celestial wild cards, unleashes his tempestuous fury. His unpredictable energy erupts as a violent storm, with lightning bolts lashing the sky like ethereal whips, crackling with an otherworldly potency that shakes the Moon to her core. Fear and awe entwine within her like tender celestial vines as lightning bolts dance across the sky, and charge the air.
Everyone scurries to hide behind the clouds, including the Moon. But Mercury, the celestial trickster, seizes the chaotic moment with glee, pulling down the Moon’s black skirt to reveal her white, blood-stained underskirt. The celestial gathering erupts in laughter, their giggles and snickers echoing through the cosmos.
“We know why she’s moody,” they say in unison, their whispers weaving a cosmic murmur. As they gaze upon the Moon’s exposed secret, they nod knowingly, their eyes twinkling with mirth. They acknowledge the Moon’s eternal truth: her phases are governed not just by the Sun’s rays, but by the gentle hum of her own inner rhythms.
But who would dare whisper this truth to the Moon’s face, especially when her emotions are as turbulent as a supernova, and unpredictable as a black hole’s gravity, warping the fabric of their gathering? No, there is just enough lunacy they can take a night. So, with cautious glances, smiles tinged with cosmic restraint, they let silence speak and tiptoe around her lunar sensitivities.