Lívian Bonato Moraes | Poor Humans.


They are so fragile, crumbling with time. Once, I fell in love with a human man; he was the impetuous type, trying to race against time, attempting to consecrate his existence as something valuable. For a moment, he almost convinced me.

I took my eyes off him for an instant to witness a solar explosion; when I returned, he was at his funeral.

Poor fragile humans, do they ever imagine what it would be like not to have such short lives like insects? Do they envision the pleasure of contemplating cosmic events, the adrenaline of fleeing meteors? What do such simple beings dream of?

But they do not experience eternal solitude. They do not yearn for years at the possibility of an eclipse, when they could finally feel the touch of their beloved. They do not feel the cold, indifferent gaze of the universe, only the tenderness of their fragile relationships.

I, who am the Moon, sometimes wish I could be human.

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