The full moon.

  I didn’t know whether to be happy, envious, or even indifferent towards it. Shall I be joyful that the beautiful orb hung fully round in the night sky? Jealous of the many fictitious werewolves who grow pelts and run and howl just because they can? Or was it simply best to ignore that confusing circle whose surface shadows cast in such a way that a man’s disapproving face looks down on me?
  
Tonight, I didn’t know which to do. It was the day after the full moon, but it looked as though it was full enough. Instead of hanging nice and round, it looks odd, as though it were simply a sticker on the dark-violet backdrop. Unreal. Yet as torturous as ever.

  Why?—I asked no one—Why must it mock me?

  No one answered. Not the moon, not the flat sky. The window frame, witness to my whole pitiful mental bout stayed silent.

  I wanted to give into the urge to shut the window and curtain, but the thought choked my throat. Instead I rose and opened the screen as well, almost not in control as I leaned stiff-armed against the sill to stick my head out the small portal and tip my nose to the clouds.

  Biting my lip did nothing, and I was almost surprised to hear the howl. Was that me making that noise?

  I saw the moon again. Who cared if I made that animal noise? Didn’t the neighbors know I was insane? Didn’t I have to endure their late-night teenage party goers coming home? Didn’t I always stay silent as the beer-drunken drivers spoke very loudly to their peers for departure? So what if I made a little noise myself?

  Uncaring anymore, I pointed my chin higher and howled.

  You can’t seem to understand my plea in English, Moon, so maybe you can hear it if I tell you this way.