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Apathy Girl and Other Tales

Musings of the Overly Naive Cynic

 The moon is a celestial hobo, a mooch in the sky, a beggar with no words. It has nothing of its own but rocks, a little frozen water, and an abundance of mystique, intrigue, and even horror. The moon does not have it’s own magnetic field, despite its size. It does not have its own life forms (as known so far). Its light, luminescence, is borrowed from the sun. The moon, in all its beauty, for all the poetry, for all the moon-eyed lovers, is a rock, the individual values that make up its whole are taken from other galactic bodies that do not inspire nearly as much reverence or romance. Perhaps it could even fall from the sky and no one would notice. Except for the crater. And that whole thing with the tide. And the fact that there would be no moon.

For all its flaws, though, I am in love with the moon. I am in love with the way it changes, and not just the mundane wax and wane, but the colors, the shape, the sheer size. How it takes the atmosphere, the tree lines, the eyes of a child, and uses them to make itself seems large, imposing, but not ominous. I love the moon. It takes pollution and sun rays to morph into subdued shades of orange, rich gold, and haunting blue. In its inconsistencies it is constant, never wavering, even when you cannot see it, the moon is there, it has just turned its back, momentarily decided not to be beholden to the sun’s light. I have seen the moon through the windows of the trailer I grew up in, it peers at me still now. I would watch it from the car as we were ferried the three hours to my mothers house after my parents got divorced. She only asked for us every few months, it seemed like the moon was always full. In Washington, D.C. the moon would peak at me from around buildings as I walked to the Metro, playing a game of hide and seek.  I hold close the people in my life with the knowledge that they see the same moon as I, just in a different way.

I am in love with the moon. As it changes, I change. As it moves, I move. As it gains its glory from its surroundings, so do I. And so do you. We are all nothing more than what the air, our families, the sky, our friends, the Earth, allows us to be. From such a young age we are driven to either be, or not to be (sorry, Will) and it is the world around us, down to the last inconsequential rock in the sky, that provides us, or does not, with our drive. We either choose to overcome hardships, like just being a rock, with sheer will, interest, and possibly martians, or we might relegate ourselves to simply reflecting the light of those around us, skimming some of their glory for our own moment in the sky.

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