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What is the moon but a mass of rocks hanging high above our heads. So many people choose to romanticize the seemingly floating object, yet it is nothing more than a lifeless place; we cannot live there, we cannot survive there. I twirl the pencil between my fingers and sigh a defeat sound and grip the object tightly once again.

Under this tree, under this moon, I rest with nothing more than a pencil, a pad of paper, and my thoughts. The air is still, the clouds are blocking my needed light and three bats circle above. I wonder so cynically to myself if they were attempting to see my state of being. Was I dead, was I asleep, was I a snack? Bats are not so dark however thus I earned yet another sigh from myself; this time it was more playful than disappointed.

The cloud continue on and finally I am meet with the cold light of the moon. I bask for a moment, by face turned upward to the object so high above. Again, I think of the many poems, many stories, many writings about the damn thing. Always the thoughts roll of it being this great adventure, this original idea, that the moon possesses. But I know better and like to think that those others, those writing, do as well, but it is far too enticing with all the chatter from the masses. I do not hate the moon, however, I do not wish to write so fondly of something that I will never touch, never know despite its constant watch. I’d rather focuses on what it does, why it is there, the science of it all, but that is far too boring. So again, I twirl the pencil, attempting the rack my mind for a spark of inspiration under this dying tree. I must write, I must compose, but I must avoid the “original idea” of the most romantic moon.

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