To the Moon.1

The world is ever-moving. It always progresses, then it regresses. It always follows this routine. But what it doesn’t know is that it’s following a line, through time, and a spiral through space. All events under a different name, all the same. It knows its fate, but not its destiny. And will forever in its life have nothing new around the sun.

But what about me, and beings—even other living things—like me? It felt like we were always stuck in one place while all around us adapts against us.

This is why I look up to the moon, not the sun.
The moon is always the same, just like the sun, and both show the same face, but unlike the sun, the moon shows exaggerated character, to be noticed, to be watched. It’s a comforting place, where I wished to be someday. The moon always calmed me whenever I looked at it.

That is why I shed tears for the moon, not the world.

You must understand my rambling, because, as of the moment, I cannot stop what will happen, or do anything else, like every other time.

Agh, this sharp pain—it has dulled me. Perhaps the moon feels this way, and I feel like the moon. But it was always unbearable every time.

I groaned because that was all I could do. I stagger and bleed because that’s what I’m forced to do.

Not again, this again, and nothing to gain!

A jarring thud, a screaming moan—I don’t want to live like this anymore!

And yet I know I’m stuck in where I began, because the cruel world, and this system’s creator, will not allow me to live among the stars.

Again and again I live.

Again and again I suffer!

Again and again I die to live!

Again and again and again

and again and again and again

and AGAIN and AGAIN AND again

AND AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN

AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN

AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN

AGAIN ‘Please…’ AGAIN, I could barely even mouth it at my oppressor AGAIN. AGAIN, even my voice was weak AGAIN inside my mind AGAIN. AGAIN, nevertheless, it will be ignored AGAIN as this stranger stabbed me AGAIN… for mere metal currency and sadistic pleasure AGAIN!

AGAIN, AGAIN, I could not muster the effort even to grimace AGAIN, to clutch AGAIN at the pain, so that, AGAIN, I could get through it as fast as possible AGAIN. Pain was temporary AGAIN, and death, AGAIN, no longer eternal, only a process AGAIN.

…

This wasn’t what life was supposed to be.

“Hyah!” This cruel person kicked me this time. “No reaction no more!? STUPID Nekkers!” He kicked me even harder, channeling his unsolicited rage. “Feel a little, you inhuman shit! You want a restart? You want that so much, don’cha? You filthy Nekk!”

I couldn’t even raise my hands to show compliance, to show surrender, to resist. I can barely animate my jaw. My throat was already sinking in my blood.

“Fucking DIE!!”

And darkness, the only peace I’ve ever known, the image of the far-flung moon etched into my mind; its afterimage fixed upon its void throne. Here I basked in the absence of light. This was death now made temporary, a mere process. I didn’t want to wait; I wanted to stay, stay as long as I could—I wouldn’t mind spending an eternity, because when light pierces through my comforting darkness, I’m back in hell.

‘Please… just a little longer.’ No tears–not yet–only until I’ve suffered with a purpose, and for progress.

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The timely cuckoo of the chickens, the soft melody of birds, the cold waft coming from the windows, it’s the loveliest instant found in every day, until I open my eyes with the thought, ‘I have to wake up,’ followed by ‘I don’t want to leave my bed.’ Nevertheless, my body pilots my brain to lumber off the side of the bed and sluggishly stand.

‘Here we go again’? No, not that kind of sentiment, but I was only half grateful that I woke up to another life in a new, same day.

Every day, there was a list of deadlines: freshen up, hygiene up, eat up, and open shop—yes, I was a shopkeeper.

Before I knew it, the sun was up, and I was behind the counter, waiting for anyone to enter.

Some time later, the shop’s door opened with the familiar creak, and an unassuming young man came up to the counter. He looked around as if he were inspecting the place, and had an arrogant attitude as he walked. He looked at me with those condescending eyes—eyes I’ve seen from others many times.

“How much for those?” he languidly pointed at something behind me.

I spun around. There on the wall hung my field blade, which was a simple blade with a handle going along the spine of the blade. It was my everyday tool and family heirloom that spanned generations, and I’ve maintained and cherished it dearly, never allowing it to return to its place in the wall without it being polished.

I turned back at him, “It’s not for sale.”

He scoffed. “Well, what do you sell here, Nekker?” he asked, still eyeing the blade with suspicious eyes.

“I sell a variety of herbs for different purposes, some for pleasure, some for recovery, some for relief, and many mo–”
“You talk too much. How about you give me that blade over there?”

“Sorry, but it’s not for sale.”
“I didn’t ask to buy it, Nekker. I said give it to me.”
“Excuse me? That’s not poss–”
“Don’t make me ask again.”

We stared at each other; tensions rose. I was ready to lunge at the blade, as it was my only conceivable weapon, and I could feel him slowly reaching for his concealed weapon. But we were not the same; Fear was slowly eating me. I knew he would overpower me, not because he had a stronger stature, but because he had more ‘rights.’ When people like me resist, we receive undue tribulation, and I’ve heard stories, all ending the same. No one was there to protect us.

Sharply, he laughed, his body relaxing, but he still retained that confidence. “I know you felt that cold. You’d better think twice when you refuse a customer again. You know, the customer’s always right.” He winked, then gruffly left the premises.

And I exhausted my held breath, but it was not a sigh of relief. These Seekers always return a second time. They hate leaving empty-handed.