This is a photograph by Lina Scheynius. To find out more about her work, visit http://www.linascheynius.com/.
The moon howled at me.
My words are not confused.
I did not howl at the moon. That crazy, orange son of a bitch howled at me.
And what did he want?
Is he exasperated? Is he bored? Is it a form of prayer?
I’ve always thought of the moon as a silent sentinel, keeping watch over Earth. He’s not necessarily there for the sake of humans. No, we aren’t that fucking important that we get a moon to do our dirty work.
My suspicion has always been that Earth is his older sister. It’s that kind of bond. The moon is in Earth’s orbit, keeping watch on all that transpires around her and on her.
He certainly sees what little pricks we are, poking her and taking all we can from her. We’re selfish sons of bitches. And we think she wants us to have it all.
Maybe she does.
Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe her youth was so traumatic with meteors, volcanoes, dinosaurs — you name it — that she gave up on life. Now she is indifferent and occasionally rises up in anger when she can’t take it anymore.
But what if the moon, that motherfucker of the night, is keeping score? What if when he burns orange, it’s the furnaces used to forge the weapons of our demise?
What if he is just waiting for the right time to wipe us away so his sister can start over and find some peace?
Is that why he howled at me?
Was that the bloodthirsty cry that signals the onslaught is coming?
The moon is not home to a man. It is a man.
It is a means to an end.
Our end.
And I don’t know if I can, or want, to stop him.
I hate the moon — Mr. Moonlight. I hate him for all the nights he has stared at me, judged me, kept me separated from sleep.
But maybe he deserves his revenge.
An Inland Voyage 