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.