the Retrospecting-Poem on the Moon

Here, I set out.

Afflicted with a headache and feeling feverish, where was this place? Oh, I recollected. It was on the moon. This was the moon, yet it wasn't as resplendent and unattainable as it seemed when viewed from the earth. Here, there was only sweltering heat.

Boundless darkness, accompanied by continuous stillness, spread from beneath my feet to the distant hills, and along with this omnipresent heat, it seized my throat, while the sunlight pierced directly into my eyes. I could hear nothing but the rapid beating of my heart, just like this gray-white ground, monotonous, as if the creator of this planet had forgotten to color them, or perhaps 4.5 billion years of rotation had faded all the colors. There was nothing but slightly undulating gray-white hills and broken stones everywhere.

And the sky? It wasn't much to look at either. None of the stars in my memory could be found in the night sky, leaving only large expanses of congealed darkness fixed overhead, as if under the overcast sky of the Crystal Empire - but that's not right either, because the sun that roasted me still hung high in the sky, illuminating the desolate surface everywhere. It's really strange. Clearly, this sun was so dazzling, so bright, even expanding to ten times the size of the red sun in my memory. It was surrounded by a halo and emitted countless white lines, but it didn't change the ink-blackness in the sky at all. What's wrong, my night sky, what's wrong with you?

I hate the sun. Well, well, black dome, white circle, and the last thing that can be seen was the “blue marble” near the corner of the sky. This marble was half swallowed by the darkness as if peeking out from behind the curtain; the pure sea-blue was covered by wispy cotton-like clouds, and a little bit of green could still be glimpsed hidden under the white cotton. What was this? Familiarity, longing, sadness, anger, why do they flood into my mind one after another? Earth, Earth, this marble was called Earth, am I from Earth?

I didn't remember. Struggling, I wanted to use magic to dig out something from my locked memories, but I found in despair that it had been working hard to support the bubble - indeed, in this world without atmosphere and as hot as four hundred kelvins, without this bubble, how could I stand and think so easily? I'm afraid there was nothing else this single horn could do except light up a light orb.

　　
Oh, behind me - it seemed like I remembered a little vaguely. I turned around and saw a small house standing there, still unchanged, gray, and without any decoration. One step, two steps, I didn't remember why I was so familiar with this six times weaker gravity, the fine lunar dust was slippery, and my hooves couldn't catch it. Half-floating and half-walking, I finally entered the room.

Well, the expected surprise didn't exist at all, only scattered papers and a stack of white paper and black pens on the table that were out of place with the surroundings. Was this really a room? It might be more appropriate to call it a gray matchbox, after all, there was nothing but a mirror, a dirt platform, and square walls.

Black, white, gray, wasn't there a fourth color? Boring.

The handwriting on the paper, why was it so familiar? It looked like some poetry, could any crazy troubadours come here? But it didn't matter, if there were ponies nearby, maybe there was a way to find them.

　　At random, I picked up one and had a look.

The moon waxes and wanes, and I am on the moon. Why? I should not have entered.

What to think about? What to seek? Remember countless things, but I don't understand, what am I?

Where do I come from and where am I going?

Whether I come from functionality and return to the realization of the ultimate goal?

Whether there is no purpose originally, and I seek to find it during the journey?

Or is it all in nothingness, and the so-called process is just in vain?

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know at all.

But, definitely, someone left the book here. Since I have nothing to do, why not try to return the things to their original owners?

Alright, let's walk and move towards the illusory and non-existent goal as if my life has been empty and bitter for thousands of years.

Oh, my God, it was as ugly as the poems I wrote when I was a kid. But anyway, if I forgot them all, there would be no reason to convince myself to look for the pony that might not exist. Seriously, this poet must not know how to build a house at all.

Well, it's dark, so it's better to go out. Under the eternal loneliness and the sun that makes horses hate, I took a step towards the distant hill. Will the author of the poem be there? I didn't know. And I didn't really know what I was going to do. Oh, ridiculous, where did the meaning come from, suddenly popping into my mind? But since I'm already here, let it stay for a while, otherwise I'll be eaten up by emptiness and loneliness sooner or later, or have I already become an empty shell?

　　I hated the sun.

　　In any case, just go forward.