The sun is a passive-aggressive entity. It burns you if you stay too long, blinds you if you gaze excessively. But who cares? It’s the sun—bright and happy. So let it burn us.

But let’s hate the moon. The moon that brings darkness—the same darkness that births our light. Let’s hate it for being so gentle, for looking back when we stare, perhaps granting us a faint smile if we’re lucky. Let’s hate the one thing that never hurts us, the one that guides the seas and keeps the Earth‘s beings alive.

Instead, let’s love the sun. Love what scorches our skin, sets fire to our land, and dries our soil. Love the one that siphons away our water and kills our animals. Because who cares? It’s bright and happy, and that happens to be enough for the fickle human mind.

The moon offered us stillness, an all too accessible way to see the calm of the earth and find reconciliation in its quiet. Yet, we took to despising it for years. Now only the sun is heeded and granted glory. When the two meet their end, only the sun will be mourned—with an array of flowers by its grave, given by the followers it corrupted.

We say the sun and moon go hand in hand, but that’s a lie. It’s more like a collar and leash. The sun drags the moon around, a pet for us to fear will bite. When really, the real villain is the sun—a tyrant hiding behind its radiant mask, banishing the darkness the moon presents us. A darkness that is its finest gift. A blessing.

And then, there’s the rain. It died, and no one cared. “Get rid of the rain!” they said. An abomination. But without rain, where would our plants be? Without rain, the sun would wither and scorch them all. Nothing but defenceless aspects of our Earth the sun yearns to destroy. The rain never pretended to be anything but raw. It knew its flaws, but still, it never hid. It revealed its ugliness to nurture us, happiest when we stayed beside it, happier still when we relished its embrace. The rain is a forgotten saviour, fighting to keep us alive while the sun murders us in paradise.

I am gone.
Vanished if you will.
A ghost wandering its cemetery.
The afterlife is lonely,
Empty.
Boring and dark.
Every now and then I’ll see people walk by,
But when I call out I receive no answer.
It’s not as if I should wonder why,
as I am dead.
Living people don’t see dead people.

Sometimes I see ones who will stare at the graves scattered in this solemn field.
I can’t help but wonder what they see,
Can they see me or can they not?
I can’t ask them.

The living walk through this new place I call my home and weep.
It confuses me.

It rains often in this area.
Even though I have no skin or sense of feeling,
It itches.
I want to be able to feel those cold drops of water on my face again.
It’s strange not to.

My hands are white,
So is my face.
Or I think it is anyway.
I can’t see my reflection anymore.
I look down at what used to be my feet,
Now just a grey and white misty fade from my waist down.

I miss my body.
But then again,
I chose to discard it.

Sometimes I can’t tell if numbness is a gift or curse. When you feel nothing people will call you lucky or similar things but others will call you inhuman, or heartless. You don’t understand why, so you’ll never know what’s wrong with you. You understand your own thought process but no one else does. Or really, no one else can. It doesn’t hurt so you debate whether it should or not. These debates over ‚deciding‘ what you ‚should or should not feel’ will ultimately have an end— a logically and strategically thought out result. These results build a personality for you to use at will. After a while you don’t even know of you can or can’t feel. Either way you won’t win, so choose.

Are you okay?
Yes, I’m fine.
Are you really?
No.
Why didn’t you say that before?
Why would I?
You can tell someone when you don’t feel okay.
No I can’t.
Why?
No one really listens. They only want to act like they do and then ask if I want a hug. No one tries.
They do.
They don’t. Some tell me I’m selfish, or call me attention seeking to my own friends behind my back: the ones I trusted with my own emotions.
You’re just paranoid.
When I had issues a friend yelled at me, accusing me of faking them for attention. They didn’t want to help, nor did I really want any at the time. I didn’t want be yelled at though either. I’d have preferred they just stayed quiet.
You’re being dramatic.
I tried to look completely fine but it made me feel guilty and sick.
Oh shut up. You know some people have real problems right? Stop acting like you’re really that hurt.
…
Are you okay?
Yes, I’m fine.
Are you really?
Yes.
Okay.

Everyone is an alien, a creature, a thing. No one would say it’s true, but it just is and that’s fact. We consider what does not look like us, act like us, or sound like us as the term ‚alien‘. But to those ‚aliens‘ we are also the same. We simply gave ourselves what is now the name ‚Humans‘ because it sounds much more sophisticated than ‚thing‘ ‚being‘ or ‚creature‘, said so much that it’s only natural now. Through the eyes of another being, we are not humans. We are aliens. Identity is created by the being, not by nature.