The sea was dead; the moon was gone. She had wandered in her orbit, falling away as the decades and centuries and millennia tore at her. She longed to go, and into the star filled void disappeared.
The sea was dead. No more waves christened the shore in their salty embraces, ebbing gently away only to crash forward again in the next instant, kissing the world lovingly. Still and lifeless was the sea. The sea was dead and lay there, alone, longing for the moon.
Still fishermen came to tear from the great abyss small treasures. Still holidayers came to splash in the wave-less sea. None knew. No one remembered. But the sea was dead, and the moon was gone.
So perished fantasy and romance.
No one seemed to care. . .
. . . but a few lunatics began to write.
Tale told, a man saw visions of the sea, the young sea, powerful and vivacious. He spoke of an untamed sea which troubled men and fought to hold its secrets. He spoke of a time before the great submerged cities were built, before their glass was cooled or their steel hardened. Depths—the forbidden word he dared to shout. Darkness—but what was darkness in this age of electricity? Yet he spoke of dreams, not the common programed dreams listed in men’s taxes, a few cents charged every quarter. He spoke of things which came unbidden, if you didn’t plug in at night, senseless things he could not describe, and yet he strove to.
All this might have been forgiven him, except that he dreamed—and he shared the dream. The unspoken words he spoke—the hidden truths he proclaimed. He spoke of a sun in the night, a white light which lovers loved. This was unforgivable. How could man exist if these old things were remembered?
They battered him with reason, tying him in a jacket.
Here you say the moon is bright and full, that under it a man may see at night though he has no torch, though he is far from the cities. And here, contrarily, not some bright disk like the sun, but an imperceptible sliver. It’s the same moon, but some nights, some men can see, and some men cannot by the same? It makes no sense. It is delusion.
Perhaps it is the man who cannot see, perhaps it is not the moon which fails him but his heart.
Men do not see by their hearts.
I see by mine.
Tale told, he dreams even now, in a dark unlit room. He sleeps forever, like the sea, longing for the moon.