They say that the moon knows every secret.
I know that all too well. I share every secret of mine with the big, bright, ball of cheese in the sky.
Telling secrets to others is a form of intimacy, no matter how simple it may be. It’s a simple way to show that you trust in a person, and they are comfortable being vulnerable in front of them.
I have no one to talk to or seek advice about all my problems. It’s not like it matters to me anyway. Everyone has their own unique way of going about life. Some like to party, some like to stay at home and cuddle underneath their favorite blanket, some like to read books, and some just like to sleep.
I’m not like any of them. Far from it, actually. Such things have become mundane to me, especially after all these years.
I don’t care about these boring things anymore. I want something less, something easier to work with, and something that is far beyond the norm.
Which is why I find myself leaning back against an empty park bench, inside of an emptier park, underneath the starlit night sky, talking to the moon.
Night, as soon as the sun sets, is the most peaceful time. Despite only being a third of the entire day, it feels much longer to me than others.
I don’t have anyone like that. But I don’t mind. I don’t need anyone.
Because I only have a single secret that I’ve kept hidden from the ears and eyes of others.