Hey, how are you doing?
Glazing me from the skies where I can’t reach, shedding light on my face in your dull grandeur, taking a daily voyage, ensuring that i see you in my capacity and feel the wrath, the rage, the pain. Wow, moon! Do tell me though, how you maintain the shimmer taking the sunlight reflecting me and ensuring that nights are all about you? About the people who love you to the extent that they talk about the lovers, that they compare you with them, they see you and call their lover, that hey, the moon is in this angle, what’s about that? What’s about that, moon? The angle? I mean your constancy may make them feel that there is something permanent about you and about their feelings which I guess is what we all seek, the basic permanent comfort. But the moon, I hate how love makes us all ecstatic. Why do I hate it? Umm.
I just………I hate the idea of you being romantically involved everywhere, and how I am full of hopeless romance and your permanence, just put salt on my wounds which are yet to be healed. I remember how my beloved made me get on the terrace just to see you, you decided to be bloody red on that day. And we were chatting, with the Taylor Swift song playing in my ears, I saw you, moon. I saw you and in my hopeless hope, I took an endeavor and put my feelings forthwith and it was still unreciprocated. That’s exactly what happened to me, moon.
I see you and I don’t see the comfort that others see. I see how you unconsciously manipulate poets, writers, lovers into romanticizing you and you just stay, leaving them to do what they do, you stay silent. I see how you adjoined the sunlight with yourself and termed it ‘Moonlight’. Writers say that it’s you being kind and open that you accepted the light, but at what cost that you just changed its origin???
I read somewhere that ‘We live, lie, lure and teach, preach, beseech for the sake of those who matter.’ And you mattered to me too, Moon. You did. I hate how you are considered infallible, even though you just vanish twice in a month, just to come back, as a beloved try to tease a lover. I hate the idea of you being profanely there, always. Maybe, I will look at you and feel what others feel, but till then,
I am the earth, which is disturbed by storm because on days you decide to come near, I just can’t fathom anything.
I am the blood on the flowers, which are meant to fade.
I am the home never built but broken, broken, and broken.
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