I’ve always preferred the wonder that is the moon. I know some people would dispute this and say how can one not prefer the days when the sun is high, exposed in full glory, warming one to their core? However, I find the moon soothing. It can be trusted. It has craters a plenty, a dusty surface unpolished. Yet the clarity, displayed when the sky is crystalline with no blemishes present, is unequivocal. Unprecedented even.  

The sun is for those who seek more than they can find, hungry. Despite, bursting with its entirety. The sun is estimated to be 416 times bigger than the moon. It is for those who can never be pleased or do not trust with what they are, their personal definition – in a permanent elixir of gluttony and unsatisfied lust that cannot be tamed. 

The mythology of the moon is based on instinct, ones reckoning with oneself. It is for those who know their definition, yet can sit with it at ease. No tampering needed. It is for those who trust their subconscious, the unspoken. I once looked at the sun, it felt unrequited. My burn for it was too great, hedonistic. When that sun was ripped away, and instead the sombre fuzziness of the clouds took place, not only was warmth and happiness ripped away but ones ability to trust ones judgement. Why would one put oneself in a position of imminent loss?