Who is the moon?
Only the moon listens to my story silently, embracing me with soft, calming light yet sometimes cold. Ever present, seen or not. Not caring for my sometimes
outspoken suffering as they know it is not truly meant for them. Ever present to listen to my loud mind. There through turbulence as much as for a calm breeze
of my venting thoughts. The lone entity with a right to my secrets, even though I know they can't truly care.

Far above as an all seeing eye. Not bothered by our problems. Lifting the sea, granting the land water and a deadly mirror of the sky. Say that they knew of what
they could and had brought upon the life below. They do not care for the catastrophe happening beneath them, it is not the evil choice of them but a definite
aftermath of their existence, one that can't be changed.

How can an entity, with such lacking care as to not ask for forgiveness for what they've brought, be so quickly pardoned by the very same existence whose life
was crushed by them? We care as much for their interferens as they do. We blame them as much as they blame themselves. By this script they have been
referred to as an entity, an entity caring as much as blamed. Misleading by the choice of words, this entity are still only the moon.

The moon, our moon, is nothing but a rock far away. It can't hear, see, care or choose, therefore pardoned. We do not show hatred towards the moon, or ask for
retribution for the devastation it have caused. Still we sometimes talk to it as a dearly kept acquaintance. Knowledge of reality still plain to see.

As one can easily trick themselves to fall for the moons soft light, we would at the time rather not think of the truth. What we do at times have no logic attached
but it is still a necessity for our beloved sanity. We can argue about many things, talking to the moon is then still not something one should try to reason and
stop. There is no reason for it, but that is the problem when arguing against this. Everyone knows.

Opening one's vault to the moon seems unnecessary, but that is where the wrong lies. It is a selfish therapy for the mind, something sometimes needed when
the bowl of thoughts overflow and start filling a locked room. The truth about the moon, our so called entity, is clearly seen and not denied.

A stone far away can not share our story, whether by choice or mistake. We attach the feelings of someone present to the moon, the same as we do to stuffed
animals. While a teddy bear is forever bound to childhood and is thus outgrown, the moon has no such strings. Maybe in an attempt to gain the feeling of the
care only we ourselves know we need, we mimic our child versions. Putting the strings of hidden knowledge to this object, with it a caring and compassionate
presence. This thing will forever be there when needed, to be an invisible ear to rely on.

We are still grown. Contrary to children we do not truly believe in this lie, this obvious trick on ourselves. We understand the difference between pretended truth
and reality. We accept the consequences of lies and understand the concept of needed lies. All making the moon confusing for the heat yet clear for the logic
© Oliver Everheart