Lunacy

Good evening, sir. Or would you prefer ma’am? Monsieur? Your Highness? Regretfully, it has been too long a time since we last conferred. Such a lonely tale it is to tell; you dutifully watch over us all, chasing away the childish terrors of the night, an unfaltering offer of quiet companionship – but who is the one that watches over you?  

I apologise, it was not my intention to bring forth such a dreary mood so early into our meet. But I can’t help feeling as though a fragment of me lingers up there among the stars, eagerly waiting for you to call upon it; relieve the rest of me from this place under your moonlight which I do not call home, and bring me back to where I belong, where I shall dance amongst the stardust. 

‘Alien’. What a strange term indeed. Defined as foreign, unfamiliar, … disturbing. Is the concept of something different as horrific of a feat as they say? I dearly hope not. I’ve come to take pride in the fact that you and I are more alike than I first thought. I watch over my teddies, bury a kiss in each of their worn foreheads, tuck them in. No man left behind. I’m sure they’d give me the same courtesy. But they cannot. What a shame it is to be stripped of that immature thought, to finally turn to face those daunting words, ‘It’s only make believe.’ Maybe you share the same fate as them. Given life, value, sheerly from the selfish desire of others. Maybe you aren’t a companion. Maybe you aren’t watching over us, over myself. Maybe you’re just a rock in the sky, no choice but to revolve around us by force of gravity, not dumb compassion. 

Can you really hear me at all?

I apologise; I don’t mean to offend, my Dear Moon. But I must say it gets frustrating going all these years with no response. Do I listen to mother, finally, and cease this silly delusion, if that’s all it really is? I fear to come to terms with the terrifying loneliness I am faced with if she is right. It pains me to be like you. Seeing all, but never truly, truly seen. 

Alas, it must be drawing well near thirteen o’clock; far too late to be contemplating such dilemmas. Though I suppose, there’s never a better time to do it than now, under your glow, while the rest of your subjects slumber. Nonetheless, if mother were to wake, she’d be terribly displeased to see I was not yet in bed. So, we shall part here.

I don’t think I will write to you anymore. Let this be my love letter, a farewell, to the child who believed. Thank you for making me feel less lonely when the shadows grow long.

All yours, truly.

Written by Bella Muerte.

from the earth to the morgue