Talking to the Moon | Yoongi ✓

chapter 1 | therapy

Stars twinkle with their individual charm as you walk home from the nearby corner store, heading to your petite home with a saunter. The plastic shopping bags, colored with a dull brownish tint, are clutched in your hand with the company of an essential purse in the same hand. You've always had a knack for being able to carry multiple things at once.

As a seemingly vulnerable woman, anybody could feel fear whilst strolling outside back to ones own home and neighborhood — after all, you never know who's truly good and who isn't. But, somehow, you feel protected at the moment for some alien reason that lingers in the back of your mind. You're aware of this reason, understanding it but clouding your mind with nothingness for the purpose of trying to convince yourself that you're stupid for feeling it.

The moon. The stars.

You speak to the moon every night. The stars tag along as if they were it's children, listening to your stories and tales as they drift off, the velvety ribbons of sweet exhaustion lulling them to sleep until the morning. In any other area of the world, the stars would play, dancing around lovers as they kiss one another in patient, kind love present in places like Paris and New York. But in Korea, it feels like to you that the stars stop for the night, any childlike playfulness they upheld ceasing as the world hushes for a moment as you voice your thoughts.

The soles of your black Converse high tops click along the pavement, the cracks in the concrete all differentiated by their size and length. Staring down at them, you take note of their individuality. Long and short, wide yet small, small and hardly noticeable. It reminded you of people and how they were on the outside, how their physical appearances could easily determine who they are as a person — well, at least that's how society judges them.

Then you remember the cheesy part about it. The inside.

You mindlessly peer into the cracks as you continue to walk, now noticing how some had these tiny, pretty viridescent sprouts, while others had obtained boisterous and gorgeous patches of the more vibrant color, and others with just dead and dark grass in pigments and appearance.

In the end, observing all of this brought up the same enigma: why is it that only some cracks have this perfect, admirable grass that grows so profusely, while the others are just withered and gone? Why can't the "bad" growth inside of these cracks also be considered as beautiful?

You can only assume that the concept can be thought of as this: we only consider the other grass inside of the cracks as beautiful because we as a society have created this thought, indulged in it, destroyed others with it, and have never let it go to this day. With our minds obsessed and clouded with this generational belief, we never succeed to witness the beauty of those who don't always fit the standard.

'I'm overthinking again..'

Letting out a long, drawn-out sigh, you finally notice in your field of vision that you've arrived at your home. The walk from the store to here is hardly any time at all, so taking a car wasn't necessary. As an twenty-year-old woman who's just now getting into college and recently got a drivers license, you're still getting used to driving instead of just taking your bike everywhere.