The pale moon stares intently at me.
She peers through my transparent window pane, eyeing me from head to toe with judgement and assumptions.
Bottles of wine, beer, and vodka scatter around me, dark eyes as dark as the night drooping low, begging me to succumb to the darkness.
I swirl my bottle around.
Her face reflects from my bottle.
Stop fucking staring at me!
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The moon is a fucking bitch.
Fucking pale-looking ass.
Fucking attention whore.
Fucking hypocrite.
Fucking—
It makes me wonder if the moon has beauty.
It makes me wonder if the moon knows love.
It makes me wonder if the moon feels happiness.
It makes me wonder if the moon is human.
I wonder now, how spiritually fulfilled the moon is.
It makes me think she's the most remorseful of all the sinners during Confession.
Since every time the moon sins, she changes her shape.
From new, to crescent, to quarter, and to full, she always tries to change. Sometimes, when the sin is deadly, her color becomes red. But in the end, she puts in the effort to be a virtuous being.
I believe myself to be deeply religious. I love God. I read the Bible. I go to Mass—though lately, I haven't been out in a month. And I fucking adore Jesus.
But, unlike the moon, I fucking don't give a damn to do anything about my broken relationship with God as shown through my landfill-looking heap of sins. I don't bother to do Confession—when I do, I hide the things I'm most remorseful about. And when I exit out of the room, I fucking relish in the sins again.
I don't fucking change like the moon.
I don't put any fucking work.
I fucking don't care.
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But deep inside, I do care...
I wanna be like the moon.
Yes, she's inconstant.
But at least she changes...
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
SpiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
