The warm midsummer's Saturday night seemed eerily still; the world was perfectly silent around me as I lay in the grass at the top of the cliff. No wind stirred my wispy hair or the emerald turf serving as my pillow. I had been previously catnapping, but now I opened my eyes - - and was nearly blinded by the brilliance of the full moon above me. I sat up, drawing my knees to my chest and rubbing my eyes. Shaking off the drowsy feeling, though never standing up, I scooted toward the edge of the precipice and looked down.

The spot I occupied overlooked the beach, and from my isolated perch I could easily view a party taking place in those sands. Any onlooker could see the utter mirth in this celebration: a small group cavorting about a bonfire, all of this encompassed by a circle of small stones. Theirs was a festival dedicated to the moon and the changing of seasons: terribly sincere, and, it struck me, somehow very pure.

But the bonfire's warmth could not reach me up on high; naught but filthy black smoke approached me, and I remained as cold and alone as the heavenly body they paid homage to. Likewise, I could feel none of the radiance of their spiritual fervor; my now-stony heart felt nothing but a terrible longing. I had once adored outings such as these, but I could take part nevermore.

I propped my elbow upon my knee and held my face in one hand. Certainly, I thought, I must have better things to do than sit here feeling sorry for myself. I stood up and turned to leave, pausing once to glance back. I felt a transient impulse to find a path down to the beach and join their dance� but no, I could never do so. I would be an intruder; even though these were my family and my friends they could never begin to comprehend what I had gone through, and their gleeful faces would only worsen my mood. Later I would reflect that this had been an insular view, and they would have understood my feelings and experiences all too well.

I wrapped my arms around my upper body tightly as I stood there, alone on the cliff. I was feeling a chill; one not physically possible on such a balmy evening, but an internal one provoked by my own morbid thoughts. "What's wrong with me?" I asked out loud, softly. I received no answer but sepulchral silence.