Gazing at the Moon

When I looked up at night, the moon was already hanging high.

Not the kind that had just risen, still tinged with an orange edge, but one that had settled, its light calm, its outline sharp, like an object polished by time. It was in no hurry to illuminate anything; it simply existed.

I stood there, watching it for a while.

People rarely truly “look” at the moon. More often, they just know it’s there. Like so many things—hometowns, old friends, people long out of touch—they occupy a place in memory but are seldom gazed upon with true attention.

The act of gazing at the moon itself carries a hint of hesitation.

You don’t know what to project onto it, yet vaguely feel it should bear something.

As a child reading “I lift my head to gaze at the bright moon,” I always thought it was a romantic posture. Only after growing up did I realize that those who truly stop to gaze at the moon are often not doing so out of happiness. More often, it’s after everything is done, words have been spoken, the world has temporarily quieted down, and only you are left, still searching for a suitable place to be.

The moon answers no questions.

It simply sheds its light evenly, impartially.

It suddenly struck me that gazing at the moon is not about seeking resonance, but about confirming distance.

Confirming the impassable space between it and me;

And confirming the same between me and certain pasts.

Those relationships that have ended, paths not taken, thoughts set aside—they haven’t vanished; they’ve merely been placed in a position of “no longer approaching.” Like the moon, visible, yet unreachable.

This clarity, instead, brings peace.

Moonlight falls upon the ground—not sharp, nor gentle. It merely brings contours into view—the shadows of trees, eaves, and people all become sharply defined. You can finally see clearly what is reality and what is merely imagination.

I stood a while longer, took no photos, left no record of any kind.

Just watching.

Some moments simply do not need to be preserved.

Their purpose for existing is merely to let you, in that instant, confirm that you are still within the world.

The moon still hung there.

I turned and left; it would not change its position because of that.

But I knew I had gazed upon it.