There is no time like never. In fact, never is the absence of time, its imagined opposite. And so right now, this is a time that would never happen: I’m on the beach in the middle of the night in my underwear leaned against a log waiting for the moon to break through the clouds. It’s been taking forever, another form of time defined by its absence, by being on the brink of happening but taking too long.

When it does come out it’s the reflection of the moon on the ocean that’s more dazzling than the moon itself. It breaks upon the surface of the water like glittering jewels. And hangs in the air suspended like a ghost. And everything is covered in its silvery glow.

It could be like a print negative, that’s what never is like: the image of what you were doing in reverse. I’m never going to drink again. It will never be the same. Some things never change.

You see, never is the opposite of time or the failure to realize it. And like forever it’s part of a narrative we tell ourselves, out of reach. Never and forever are kin in the untouchable. Neither is to be trusted. I will love you forever is just as untrue as I will never love you again.

I have taken too long in the middle of the night moon gazing when I should be getting some rest. It was like some odd shape, the silhouette of a horse on its hind legs, how the moon lit up the clouds as it tried to push through. And there will never be another moon like that one.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, pacific northwest