Even the moon, in its pale brilliance, hangs distant in the night, a beacon for all those who have ever reached out and found only the cool, indifferent void between them. It watches silently as we spin, caught between the fragile hope that one day we might touch the unreachable and the bitter wisdom that our longing is bound to remain unfulfilled.
There’s a strange kind of beauty in this distance, an unspoken harmony between the ache of yearning and the starkness of reality. And perhaps it is in this gap, between desire and the understanding that it may never be met, that the truest part of us is revealed. In this silence, we learn not only the shape of our dreams but the contours of our limitations. The moon, too, is a mirror of sorts—reflecting not what we have, but what we wish we could become, the version of ourselves that is somehow both close and unreachable.
I think about vulnerability in these moments. How we stretch, reaching outward, hoping someone or something will bridge the space between us and our desires. And in this stretch, we find strength—not the strength to attain the unreachable, but the strength to remain vulnerable, to continue reaching. To recognize that the act of longing, of continuing despite the distance, is itself a quiet act of power.
And yet, the moon remains distant. Its glow, constant, mocking in its serenity. Our yearning will never be answered, not fully. Perhaps that is the point—to love the longing itself, to savor the ache as it becomes a part of who we are.
For in that stretch,
we find that we are both lost and found—forever reaching,
never touching,
and yet,
beautifully,
still alive.
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