I have been gazing at the moon very differently lately. It used to resemble some runaway Chinese lantern that gaslighted me into thinking the nights were safe. And while it was always a gorgeous-looking celestial body, I had felt no earthly connection to it.
Often I saw its wild opalescent skin burn outside the window in my bedroom. Still, it seemed so far away. The moon was all the way up there. And I was down here.
I had no reason to care about it. Separated by time, distance and destiny, we barely spoke to each other.
When I started traveling to the hills, though, I found myself slipping under the spell of its pale white light. The largely unpolluted skies gave it a bigger personality. Its outer surface seemed to be damaged; as though the moon had lost every intergalactic barfight — with a beautiful scar to show for each knockout blow.
Stirred but never shaken. Like a cracked snow globe. Whenever it stuck around during early morning hours — it held a warm glow.
As the sun cigarette-burned through the hearts of the valleys and fields below, the moon turned out to be a far gentler paramour.
Whether toenail-shaped or spun into a perfect circle, come rain or shine, it just seemed alive. Pursuing darkness. Inhaling stardust. Exhaling light. Kicking and screaming at such unfathomable speeds and mathematical volumes. Courageous, patient and resilient.
These days, every time I look up to steal a glimpse of the moon — I smile to myself. Because I know that it is up there, probably getting its ass kicked. Yet only a few seconds away from getting back up again.
Ready to glow upon the wretched.
To give them hope about finding their way.