Word: Lunacy.

On the way back from terawikh tonight, at the tram stop, in the cold, the Moon is bright. Since INTEC I've fostered quite a relationship with the moon. Mainly because I could see it through my window as I lay on my bed. All those sleepless nights I spent staring at the Moon ( so much prettier than my goddamn ceiling) I've grown to be quite fixated with it. A bunch of my poems had something to do with the Moon back then.

I'd think how there's just dust on its scarred surface. No sound, no wind, no nothing. I'd then think of it as a sentient entity, not just some suspended rock that orbits this world that's made of many little worlds just like mine. If things were bad (as they often are when I took to contemplating the Moon), I'd imagine myself running as fast as I could to the edge of the world and jump off, floating into the inky, star-studded space and landing on the pearly sphere. All the while, I'd have my hand stretched in front of me, towards it, just, you know fantasizing.

To reiterate, the Moon is bright tonight but it seems more distant than usual. It's unfair that it looks exactly the same here, as it does at home. I feel like now that I'm in Melbourne, the Moon should look different. It's cruel that it looks no different. Something within me aches but really, it's probably just the cold. Lunacy, such a lovely word.