Would You Wish You Were the Moon?

 

Would you wish you were the moon?

I curiously interrogated my parents during one of our many philosophical conversations in the car

My weary head rested on the window as my eyes followed the ivory glory of the brightest orb in the ebony stretch of the night sky; the moon.

 Wouldn’t I love to be the moon- To be the recipient of awe by fervent astronomers, every crater, every flaw appreciated as my natural beauty, the wonder of my existence?

To be the icon celebrated in religious fervor across the worldly continents, a synonym to lunar deities and worshipped as a symbol of midnight magic and ardent love.

Oh, to be the glorious moon! Captured and immortalized by the flowing curve of a white drenched paintbrush, my image, my unique phases being the attention demanders in renowned art galleries.

And as lonely hearts and souls gaze out of bedroom windows, as slight puffs of air, a mournful sigh, escapes them, I am their steady companion who never speaks, always listens and sometimes gleams.

Sleepy little earthlings securely strapped in their car seats imagine me following (never stalking) them, when in actuality, they’re following me, tracking me with their innocent, fresh, young, wide eyes – imagining the moon with little bandy legs, puffing and panting as it races to keep up with the smooth surfing of a vehicle- a marathon runner, indeed! I catch a breath behind the trees.

I’m a traveler.

I’ve seen the Earthen lands, traveled the translucent high seas, experienced all the seasons of the four corners, seen all of earth’s inhabitants, those in hiding, those awake, those locked in their own confining thoughts, those that dine (alone, and in company), those that silently riot, those that internally scream, those who are newly born, those that despair in dreams and relish the nightmares, those that sleep with one eye open, and those who lie cold with both open.

They question my age.

I am, according to the geniuses who spent their time calculating it,  4.53 billion years old.

The earthlings consider this terribly old, I consider myself in the summer of my lifetime. I have kept the same job for 4.35 billion years, yet no one bothers to inquire about its pleasures and its sacrifices or ask about my retirement (Couldn’t I always just stop rotating?)

The same geniuses theorized how I was born and claimed it to be a very messy affair.

Yet again, no one bothered to ask how tragic it was to not have been able to witness, to be a stander by, to be the actual result, of the creation of the Universe. The Universe is a glorious thing: its mystery allures me, its emptiness gives me hope and its unknown size makes me feel pathetic in comparison. Imagine having all that possibility to explore my home (and this home is bigger than the Milky Way- that creamy, homemade goodness) without the need of years of aeronautic experience and be stuck in this rotating business, with no hope of escaping such a binding career!

Lonely? Friendless? You dare to offend! The stars, my fellow-spheres of luminescent gas are my hearty siblings.

While Earth, a true Garden of Eden, a distant friendly neighbor.

 And who can be blind to the fiery ball of fury, the Sun, the Sun! My physical opposite is my alarm clock, a constant reminder of my nightly appearance for my loyal viewers, the earthly inhabitants.

And my competitor in acquiring the wishes of others and in being man’s confidante in the sky- the North Star- a beautiful nemesis!  A nemesis who keeps me revolving in updating my social status. One can never be sure with popularity.

And visitors? Dear me, I have plenty once in a blue moon- visitors from planet Earth come exploring around my rugged surface, showing up unannounced, but welcomed with gifts of basaltic lunar rocks (a humble memento from a humble host) to cultivate their knowledge of ME!

Imagine being the star under the spotlight of scientific research and discovery! Imagine how, despite my various other identicals scattered across the solar system, Earth and its forever curious people chose ME.

I end my monologue on my wish of having been born the heavenly moon, with a sigh- whether it was a sigh of despair or content, I will never know.

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