Pale lights illuminate the outstretched road leading home. Desolate and sombre, the melancholy it evokes, of course, when accompanied by the moon, is sweet bliss in comparison to my house. No, not a home. A house. A building, on a fenced off patch of land, betrayed even more by the strangers living in it.
Yes, out of all my friends and all my family, it is the night that knows me best. It echoes my soul as the darkness gently caresses my unfair skin, in absence of all light, except the moon's regretful glow.
My heartfire glows not with ire, nor is it guided by any maharishi, physical or otherwise. No, the only energy which I channel within me, is that of the sorrowful willow. I feel the sway of its crestfallen head, pondering truth as it peers into the flowing mirror, hoping for a glimpse of the real face of that which stares back at it.