The Moon's Comfort

Your Sun and My Moon

Night blankets over the Earth with a cold chill. The loud clamour of people and business dies down for owls and bats to wake. The light of the day wears down the strongest rock for rest, though life does not stop at dusk.

Frustrations and doubts settle into the soul; hearts full of guilt and anxiety succumb to contemplation and sadness. The record continues its song without pause, the spin of the needle singing with a muffle of cries. Night's dark canvas gives freedom to the heart which grew tired of beating. The cold touch of death comforts, but if it were not for the darkness, there would be no great value for the light.

Heart clenched and eyes sore from tears. "When will it be over?" she calls, gazing at the bright moon with clouded eyes. "When can I join you?" she wept, holding her own body to preserve what warmth was left.

No voice replied, yet the presence of the moon in that dark sky comforted as no other could. Her heart was numb from torture, the end appearing with greater hope than her dreams.

Wiping her eyes of tears, she sniffled to speak again. "You're the clear good in evil, which does not blind like the sun." She sighed with a hitch in her lungs, a weak smile forcing way.

Her unpleasant memories demanded more blood be spilt, but there was no comfort such as the moon provided. He was the presence that could be guaranteed to arrive and listen without cruel judgement, the hug of a thousand fireflies, and the sweet taste of love.

Line over line, new layers of skin cut through for the cleansing ritual to continue. Each word, each harm, leaked from those wounds with the burn of alcohol. The burn brought her to life, reminding her that her time had not come and that there was more to life than this–but she did not listen.

When the moon did not show, she still knew the moon was there, forced to hide in the night sky with the stars. Her words flowed, yet were choked with tearful smiles.

"What is it like there?" one night she asked the moon at the highest point she could reach.

After sitting in silence, she looked back down to the ground below, where she was stuck. "How many people would miss me?" she silently cried at the words, squeezing more tears from her weak heart.

The tears burned, but they were warm and coated her face like how she imagined one would when they would hold her tight and mutter sweet things. She tried again, looking to the sky in search of the moon, "I wish I could be there with you. I feel so alone here."

More tears came, which she wiped away with her sleeves. The rub of cotton and bandages against the fresh cuts hurt, but they reminded her that she was alive. She sang songs to the moon, hoping her voice would and wouldn't be heard. She did not want to worry others, which was why these feelings were well-kept until the mask of the night allowed.

She could remember New Year's Day, having marked new lines on her skin on that joyous day, and the smile of her father and mother. Why did it have to have to be this way?

By the time her lungs gave way and prevented no more weak cries, she climbed back inside that dark room where she stored herself like a sad doll.

There was little concern for her from others, by which she came to believe she was only a little more sensitive than others. "Everyone cries," she told herself one night when getting into bed, but a small and weak voice deep down whispered, "Is it so that everyone else cuts too?" but she did not hear.

Many times did she look at others with fear, and anxiety about being noticed and judged. She feared to speak out, for whatever reason it may be. Without much time, there came the result of tearful nights of anxiety and despair–yet she did not believe anything was wrong.

The blood continued to spill, overflowing for a few days to cleanse of harmful words. Many times she would mutter through her cries, grasping her head and shutting her eyes for the words to disappear, but they never did. They seemed to echo in her mind like a broken record, one which she could not replace nor muffle even with her own cries.

"You should start working, Paula already has for her family's restaurant."

Slice.

"I would tell my parents to return that phone and slap them in the face to use it for something useful."

Slice.

"Food stamps are for poor people, ƎℓîՀДᏰƎ✞ℍ."

Slice.

The moon looked down on her, his words only reaching so far as this weak soul perished under her own feet day by day. "Would you like to join me?" he spoke one night, his light deeply hidden behind the setting sun that attempted to push him aside. The sun was good, and the darkness that came with the moon's night was bad, but she did not believe so.

Her eyes remained stuck to the floor, her body weak and her heart tight with pain. She did not reply as she held herself in bed, hoping for it to be all over once she woke up from this nightmare.

"You must not give up," he spoke again, stepping through the window with pure light. He brought her into his arms, his body cold as morning dew and touch as light as fog. "These people do not matter."

She brought her eyes to open, the tears glistening on her face. She could not see anything but could see everything. Her voice was weak as she muttered, "Why?"

The moon looked at her with sympathy, a pained smile reaching his face. "It's not your time." He held her close once more, placing a kiss on her forehead with a blessing. "I will reach you even through the darkest nights, even if your eyes are heavy with murk and tears, and when all have given up on you, I will be there."

Night and time continued with no delay, returning to his perch he watched over her. The trance she was placed under brought grief to many, awakening not only her, but the others around her to take heed.

Dawn arrived with bitter regret, rain did not pour because there was no death, but rather a rebirth. To rise from the ashes anew is what she did. That morning after, and many years to come later, it all felt to be a bad dream she had woken up from.

The moon watched her many years later, smiling with pride at the progress that weak little girl had made to become who she is today. Not once did he regret having given her what she wanted, the comfort of death, because it was not he that governed life and death.

The sun envied his unlawful approach towards the girl, for he could not bring the same comfort as the moon did. Yet, the two had their differences in warmth which they provided mortals, their roles contrasting and suiting to one another as yin and yang with balance.

He gazed one night where no cry seeped from within that room and smiled with grace. She lay, sound asleep, with warm dreams of stories and hopes of the future swarming her resting mind.

"If there were to be another moment where all hope seems lost, I will be your guiding light once more, my love."