They say the moon is unlucky—beloved only because of the sun’s rays.
But what about the sun itself?
Who snaps pictures of the sun when it is not drowning or rising?
It is never appreciated in its full form—the sun is only ever recorded or deemed special when it is swallowed by a horizon or softened by clouds.
Everyone complains when it shines bright—reaching its full potential, the potential it was birthed for.
Its light, too bright. Its heat, too much.
It is only appreciated when it is needed, never when it survives for the people of the Earth—and yet, we never pause to see what it does for us as it shines through our eyelashes—resting right above us.
We always say the moon cannot shine alone, it relies on the sun—how tragic, they say, that it would be destined for darkness without borrowed light.
But how must the sun feel when its light is only ever appreciated at its brightest in another body?
It is never gazed at with anything other than squinting eyes—And yet no one ever complains when the moon crosses their eyes.
The next time I look at the sun—even for the fleeting moment that I can—I'll call it pretty, and thank it for all it does—for all those hidden blessings it holds, the blessings the cameras will never rise for.
I'll tell it that it's not alone—and though I cannot touch its scorching surface, I will promise to look up—not away
I will admire it from afar—just so that it shines not only for us, but for itself, too.
And it will whisper back,
after centuries of bearing the complaints about the body it cannot change—about the purpose it cannot leave,
“Thank you.”
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts for the Eye
PoetryThoughts I wrote down, maybe they'll give you some comfort? "But I feel something deeper. Beneath the fear, there is a fire inside of me, one I cannot extinguish. It burns with the pain and the rage of all the women who came before me. " PS. If...
