My Love Affair with the Moon

It’s strange. Really strange. Some might call me a lunatic (get it??) but I pretend the moon is my guardian. My best friend. Whenever I feel alone (that’s almost always at night), I look outside my window and there it is, beaming (literally) at me.

I’m going through a lot of changes in my life right now; my likes, interests, responsibilities, perspectives, and specifically my transition from school into college. I even went to a dinner where I met my friends’ friends. Meeting new people is not my forte. Oh no. I get really awkward and uncomfortable. In situations like these, my head gravitates up almost instinctively, in search of the moon. If I’m lucky enough to be under the night sky, as I was that night, I’ll find it protectively above me, promising to always be familiar in a foreign situation. My constant.

But why am I so obsessed? Maybe its the notion that while the moon is sunk in the never-ending oceans of space,  it is still our own. It pulls and pushes the tides, thereby regulating weather and maintaining consistent climatic patterns. It controls cycles and guides instincts. Our Earth is infinitely dependent on this mass of grey rock that was a result of chance cosmic impact.


Here’s a shot I got of the supermoon through my telescope on the 10th.

Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?



One of my favourite poems


by Allen Curnow

The moon rolls over the roof and falls behind

my house, and the moon does neither of these things,

I am talking about myself.

It’s not possible to get off to sleep or

the subject or the planet, nor to think thoughts.

Better barefoot it out the front

door and lean from the porch across the privets

and the palms into the washed-out creation,

a dark place with two particular

bright clouds dusted (query) by the moon, one’s mine

the other’s an adversary, which may depend

on the wind, or something.

A long moment stretches, the next one is not

on time. Not unaccountably the chill of

the planking underfoot rises.

in the throat, for it’s part the night sky empties

the whole of it’s contents down. Turn on a bare

heel, close the door behind

on the author, cringing demiurge, who picks up

his litter and his tools and paces me back

to bed, stealthily in step.