Momentarily I felt weakened. My vision became cloudy and my head filled with static. I remember the words she told me before she left, “Hope is a prison.” As the sun continued to set I started to regain my senses. The night was always a protective shroud and its cool air against my skin soothed the fire in my heart. I far preferred the subtle guiding light of the moon to the harsh glare of its celestial counterpart. There is something sacred in being chosen by moonlight. To be illuminated by a beam that otherwise forsakes the rest of your surroundings. In the darkest black there is a singular glowing orb above you, bursting with lucidity, yet still gentle enough to let you gaze upon it. For a moment everything else fades into the background and all you can see is that which directly in front of you. Bearing that in mind, how could I expect anyone else to see the cataclysm raging all around me?
