And i, the moon. Spent so long believing that my purpose was to orbit you quietly, to survive on whatever light you were willing to leave behind. You always asked for more, more understand, more patience, more softness, more pieces of me i had not yet learned how to lose. And every time i gave them to you, you held them like ordinary things like ocean do with rain, receiving without ever looking up to thank the sky.

So i kept giving.

I dimmed myself gently, convinced that perhaps love was supposed to feel like surrender. I swallowed my pride in silence, lowered my voice, lowered my needs, lowered the aching parts of me just so your hands would finally choose to hold them. I begged for affection in ways no one should ever have to beg.

I waited for warmth like winter waits for spring, desperated, patient, humiliated by its own hope. And you know it.

You know i would stay through every eclipse, every cold night, every moment you looked at me as if my love was something guaranteed, something that would remain no matter how carelessly you handled it. The cruelest part was never you distance. It was how easily you accepted my desperation. You watched me reach for you with trembling hands, watched me trade pieces of my dignity for the smallest fragments of your attention, and still spoke as though i was the one asking for to much.

But then i looked around. And i saw moons loved without shrinking themself first. I saw hearts being held gently, without having to break open to prove they were worthy. I saw people recive tenderness without kneeling for it. And suddenly, the universe you built around me no longer felt like fate. It felt like starvation.

I realized i had spent so much time trying to become easier to love that i never stop to ask why your love required my disappearance. Because no celestial body should have to dim itself just to be noticed. No moon should have to beg the sun to act warm. And perhaps that is tragedy of us...you were so used to being worshipped that you never learned how to appreciated the things that revolved around you. While i love you so deeply that i mistook my own undoing for devotion.

She wrote of people of culture of truth

Zora Neale Hurston— a name that echoes through the Harlem Renaissance

But tell me… why did the world never crown her with a Nobel Prize?

Maybe the answer is more than history— maybe it’s something we still haven’t learned

Read more softly, deeply 👇 https://worldliterature24.blogspot.com/2026/04/zora-neale-hurston.html

I don’t claim to know about fate,

or lives lived before this one,

or some careful design written into the sky.

I imagine the universe as curious

a little unruly,

tossing moments into our hands

just to see what we dare to make of them.

Yet there is another voice inside me

that refuses to believe it’s all coincidence.

It listens for meanings without names,

feels familiarity before language arrives,

recognizes something sacred

before the mind can explain why.

Sometimes I think this part of me

belongs to an older quiet

a time of lantern-lit evenings,

of warmth folded into golden light,

where stories drifted softly through the air

and possibilities hummed like stars

learning how to shine.

And maybe that contradiction is the truth:

to doubt everything,

yet still feel wonder press gently at the chest.

To walk through ordinary days

with a heart half skeptical, half enchanted,

as if the world knows something about me

I am still learning how to remember.

The rational part of me whispers

that we are only fragments

atoms colliding,

moments stitched together by accident,

consciousness blooming briefly

before returning to silence.

But there is another part of me,

quiet yet insistent,

that refuses to accept randomness alone.

It notices patterns forming in chaos,

feels meaning gather like stars,

believes that what the heart reaches for

slowly learns how to exist.

Perhaps this tension is what makes us human:

to carry feelings we cannot justify,

to recognize beauty before we understand it,

to be pulled by something familiar

without knowing where we learned its name.

Maybe that is truth in its simplest form

not fate written in stars,

not prophecy waiting to unfold,

just the soft, electric realization

that life holds more magic

than it ever admits out loud.

So I move forward like this

questioning, yet gently smiling,

a doubter carrying secret myths in the chest,

passing through ordinary hours

while something wordless walks beside me,

a rhythm I cannot name,

as if the world remembers a version of me

I am still learning how to become.