Can you miss the sun when you’re not even sure it was real? It felt real I use to see it in the moon. Maybe that’s why I am feeling so lonely today, missing the moon, afraid to shadow that gentle light with my night-darkened clouds ever again. The moon deserves better. Can’t help feeling that powerlessness childhood brought. Frustrating. Things were supposed to be happy, you’re a kid. All the stories end up lies.
Can’t help but wonder, is everyone just really good at disguising the same pains, the same betrayals, or did I somehow cosmically deserve what the stories say should never happen to a kid. It’s what the better off try to believe, it seems. Those who are inherently good may experience troubles, but their life is no sadder than average. The rest of us, those without parents, or those dragged down by repeated, unusual tragedy. We deserved it, we must deserve it, otherwise they are not safe, their children are not safe from our kind of tragedies.
Did I somehow deserve having the sun ripped out of my life? Damn them and their lies about justice, innocence, and happy endings. It’s not the way the story should go. But this isn’t a story, is it? Stories are a tease, mocking some of us for what we will never have and what was taken away, giving us false hope that kicks us with lies after we’ve fallen. And I question myself, schooled to believe their lies. I deserve this.
I fight. That child is angry still. I survive to mar their perfect lie. I persist because both eyes need to be open. I see some of them squirm and wonder. I hope it makes them question their perfect hopes and beliefs. Likely, it only turns me into another awful person who deserves awful things. That storm cloud who questions the sunlight and ruins fun outings. They are oblivious that their willful blindness is at fault. I hate people.
I miss the moon, but she’s happy. I want that more.