As a child, whenever I looked up at the night sky, the bright moon seemed very near.
It hung there in silence, its clear light flowing like water. I would reach out my hand and innocently believe that, if only I stood a little taller on tiptoe, I might touch it.
Growing older, I learned how far away the moon truly is. To reach for it among the heavens is the achievement of countless minds and extraordinary technology—not the dream a child can touch merely by extending a hand.
Yet I have never forgotten those moonlit nights.
My heart was quiet then, and unhurried. Beneath a single moon, I could let my thoughts travel very far; without noticing, I could also let many troubles gently fall away.
Now I am grown, and have slowly come to understand much that once eluded me. Still, the self who was willing to pause for moonlight, willing to cherish the beauty of this world, seems never to have wandered far.
To call a lifetime long feels excessive; to call it an instant feels too brief.
And so, from time to time, I ask only to lift my head and quietly watch the moon.
I think of someone, centuries ago, standing somewhere beneath the night and looking upon the very same moon. Dynasties have risen and fallen; people have come and gone; joys and sorrows, reunions and partings, have passed beyond counting. Yet the moonlight remains this clear, shining from ancient nights into ours.
The feeling is difficult to name.
Something sweet, and something faint.
Only now do I understand that beauty never truly left.
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