Chapters 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.
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.
the Retrospecting-Poem on the Moon
Step by step, gradually moved further and further away.
Heat, the sun still annoyed me so much, even though it was so far away from me, it still stared straight at me as always. Huh, was it guilt, worry, regret, or fear? I didn't know why I thought this way, after all, the sun was just the sun, how could it have emotions?
How long had I walked? I didn't know. I had long lost my sense of time. Anyway, the sun hung overhead all day without changing, so what else was there to care about? Endless time, vast land, which one wasn't infinitely large? In that case, let's immerse ourselves in this infinitely far step, at least I wanted to imagine that I was happy at that moment - who knew where the author of the poem was? On this lunar soil? On that blue marble? Even on the sun? I thought maybe even he didn't know where he was, so it was absurd to set out to find him like this. Even Don Quixote, the knight! At least he could still find the windmill he wanted to crash into. But so what? Absurdity was an absurdity, after all, it wasn't meaningless. Couldn't something invisible, intangible, or even illogical be called meaning? Well, after all, it was what I wanted to do, why care so much?
Oh, finally! Something different appeared. There were tall hills ahead, one after another as if they were part of a huge ring, maybe it was a crater? There were still hills behind the hills, layer upon layer, winding and extending, and it was impossible to see what was hidden inside. Could the innermost part of this group of mountains be the poet I was looking for? I didn't know. But after all, the axis of time had been stretched infinitely long on the coordinate system, then there was no reason not to take a look.
Calling it climbing mountains was more like traversing a maze. From a distance, the mountains appear to be continuous, but up close, they are filled with countless holes. I slowly made my way through the canyons between the mountains, and all around me was the same monotonous gray sand and rocks, stretching from the soles of my feet to the peak of the mountain, and then swallowed up by the darkness of the sky - well, perhaps the creator of this planet was an abstract artist? If so, where are those lines full of tension?
The corner came, and turning around, there was still a canyon that could be seen at a glance. I had to hurry over and then turn into the next empty canyon with anticipation. I didn't even know if I was moving towards the center of the crater. Choices, choices, once I chose this canyon, I would never look back, just as I chose to set my roof on this desolate lunar surface... Hmm, when was that? There are too many holes in my memory, so many that it's eerie, like a tangled mess of cotton thread. I have to find a way to sort them out. But since it's so absurd and strange, was my fate being toyed with? I'm not sure. If so, who would be the player? The sun? Any little horse on the blue marble? Haha, what else can control me? Standing alone on this desolate land, could it be the unnameable thing above my head? If so, I might as well commit suicide tonight. After all, if I can even control life and death, what else do I need to worry about? Oh, but not yet. I'm still far from finished - oh, it seems I was too arrogant just now. The guy outside the story with the pen doesn't want the protagonist to disappear before completing the narrative task. But it didn't matter, the last full stop was just a matter of time, for both you and me.
Another corner, still a canyon, but the mountain seemed a bit lower than before.
Then came another corner...
And yet another corner...
Hmm, the next corner seemed a little brighter. I hurried there.
In an instant, the mountains blocking the view receded to perhaps ninety-six kilometers away, revealing a large plain that wasn't exactly boundless, with several low hills in the center. The crisscrossing cracks on the ground and the lava that had solidified for many thousands of years slept quietly surrounded by the mountains under the dark clear sky. Well, I guess this was considered a clear sky, the clear sky of the moon, probably. From this perspective, having some nitrogen and oxygen was really a wonderful thing.
Continue. I headed towards the midpoint.
What did the moon look like when looking here from the "Blue Marble"? Maybe a little gray circle would be seen radiating several rays in all directions, gently engraved on the bright moon plate on the Mid-Autumn night, becoming a part of this momentary eternity - oh, what time was it on Earth now? Thirty-eight thousand kilometers away, could there also be one or two insomniacs, at this very moment, looking up at the bright moon? I hoped so.
I recalled that when I was little, my sister always told me to be brave and strong, and never turn a blind eye to injustice. Is it really useful? Just like when I climbed over this mountain range, there was still a mountain after the corner of the mountain, and even the plain reached after such absurd staggering was just like a lonely island in the vast sea - as for the farther places? Still mountains. What about my future? Still ups and downs. Is there really a way? Even if Discord was sealed, even if King Sombrawas defeated, or if the changelings were pushed back into their lair, so what? Ancient sages said that all species have such an ultimate goal, and everything on oneself was born for it, just like the wings of a bird are destined to fly, and the cute marks of a pony decide their life; just like earth ponies are destined to be immersed in complicated physical work, pegasus are always be tired of flying around, and unicorns must be trapped in the laboratory and cannot open their eyes due to the subject - really? No, this was the case during the day, and Canterlot or Manehatten at night will not be like this. Neon lights flickered on the gorgeously dressed earth ponies, pegasus, or unicorns. Didn't they have an ultimate goal? Their hooves, wings, or horns are born not to be used, just to make themselves comfortable sitting in a chair, eating luxurious food that condenses sweat and even blood, and then looking out of the glass at the lifeless factory and profits? None of this should be. Earth ponies, pegasus, unicorns, or various kinds of cute marks - can it really make such a big difference? Impossible. The difference will only be the difference between day and night. The ponies who work hard all day in the sun will never be able to indulge in the magnificent palace at night like the other group for even a moment in their lifetime. Is this destiny? I didn't accept this, so I had to think of a way to stop the moon, hang it high in the clear sky dotted with stars for a long time, let the ponies who work hard during the day rest for a while, and let the ponies under the neon lights at night lose their profit, and panic.
However, my elder sister did not want this. She said that this was chaos, making everything a mess. But what could be called a mess? Was it order and justice to divide everyone into two classes as before? She also said that I couldn't be so impatient, and change couldn't happen all at once... I didn't accept it, I didn't care, and for the first time, I stood on the opposite side of my elder sister. I no longer wanted the moon to set, and then, and then... What happened?
Headache, hot, the sun was burning again.
Unconsciously, thinking so much, I walked a little bit to the center of this circular mountain basin. Oh, there seemed to be something different. Familiar, it was countless scattered papers, a stack of thick white paper, and a pen. Fortunately, there was no wind, and these papers could quietly settle on the dust. Pick them up and take a look.
Why? Why? Why am I here?
Recalling, recalling, yet knowing nothing.
The golden sunsets in the ink-black empty pool, blend with the distant deep space.
The mountains stand tall in the gray desert, like parched dunes after the rain.
With countless thoughts, not knowing what the past was like absurd and meaningless, a long and rough path.
Taking ten thousand steps forward, eyes on the road ahead, unable to break free from the circle, but able to touch the stars.
Oh, it turned out that even he didn't know why he was there. Huh, it could be regarded as sharing the same fate.
Ha, it seemed that it wasn't a waste of effort, at least there were more clues. Besides, this handwriting was quite new, maybe the poet had just been here. Finally, there was another reason to continue moving forward a few steps - to leave this circular mountain.
the Retrospecting-Poem on the Moon
Wandering into the distance, there was a sense of déjà vu.
Remembered the time when I watched the rain scene with her, everything was as peaceful as it was then, except for the scattered raindrops. Who was she? I forgot.
The raindrops trickled down from the recesses of the square pavilion one by one, landing on the already wet grass, accompanied by a few wisps of mist that seemed to come out of nowhere and gently floated above it. It shouldn't be like this. This place is as flat as a pancake, without a single mountain. How could there be such a dark fog in the middle of the day during the rain? It's really strange. Other than that, there's nothing else. The sky is filled with dark clouds, and only a few rays of light sliced through the sky, casting striped beams of light, along with the dancing raindrops, lighting up a small patch of green grass, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of dripping.
And now? Haha, the only sound of raindrops has turned into the constant thumping of my heartbeat. I guess it's not much different. So this endless prairie and the gray sky curtain have changed, the monotonous and colorless lunar soil extends from underfoot to the pure black horizon, filling every inch of my eyes, disappearing without a trace as it is swallowed by the horizon. Leaving the ring-shaped mountains and coming to this vast and endless wasteland, I must have lost my way long ago.
What did I come to this wasteland for? I thought the undulating gray-white mountains were boring enough, but I never imagined that such flatness would make me feel even more depressed. I wanted to get out of here quickly, but what could I do? Keep going forward? I didn't know how far I still needed to go. Fortunately, at least it's not like what the predecessors said, that every time you walk half the distance, you can't reach the destination. Go back to the starting point and choose another path? That's a pity, and I don't even remember how many days I had been walking in this wasteland. Maybe the starting point is further than the destination. If I wanted to go faster, then I had to run, for the sake of making the destination arrive sooner, that unknown poet. Okay! I remembered this goal again. If one day I lost this goal and original intention here, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to run anymore, or even walk with difficulty. Come to think of it, how did I know if this was my original goal?
In that case, what lay beyond the end? She asked me this in the pavilion. Just like a series of steps connected end to end, we were always moving from the end of one staircase to another. How high was this building called Life? Or perhaps it was simply a damnable Penrose staircase, impossible to reach the top, not to mention having to carry several large sacks while climbing, those things called responsibilities. Unfortunately, in the end, it was difficult to know whether the bags contained sand or gold, and which ones should have been let go long ago, and which ones should not have been lost. Hahahahaha, if I could be sent here, then surely I had dropped a huge sack by mistake - or maybe not a mistake, but at least I had lost a sack that was important to someone else.
And what about the end? The end of this staircase, an end as dark and lightless as the sky above our heads, like a legendary black hole, from which not even light could escape, so no one could bring back any information from within. Once we stepped into the end, there was no return, and all our thoughts and ideas were lost, merging with this nothingness and returning to the world. Some brave males said, “Do not be afraid, the important thing is to make ourselves stronger before reaching the end.” But would this not make the burden even heavier? Some wise males said, “Do not be afraid, for as long as we had perception, we were not dead, and when we died, we were no longer here, so the end called death would never be felt and would never happen to us.” But was this still a form of self-talk and escape? Well, well, instead of fearing the end, why not think more about the story before the beginning? If this was still considered an escape, so be it. I had lived a long time, and I had also lived a short time. I had seen the beginning and end of countless lives, yet I was just a drop in the ocean of thick history books. Always worrying and regretting that everything after the end could not be experienced, then why not think about what was missed before the beginning? Hahaha, so we were just experiencing this small world, some for a long time, some for a short time, and death was the true main line. Then this life, even if it was regarded as a small condiment in an endless, long void - perhaps not the first time to taste it, nor the last. Ho, to be able to start was already lucky, then there was nothing to complain about the end; if you did not like this experience, you also had the right to choose to leave. In short, it was better to think about how to make this once-in-a-lifetime banquet more memorable or to strive to allow more beings to participate in the banquet with dignity and happiness, or to meet more beings at the banquet and let the threads of affection be tied together, even if they would eventually disperse.
This is how I replied to her, and she remained silent for a long time. Until the fog that came from nowhere dissipated just like that until the raindrops gradually stopped. She left, and I never saw her again. I wasn't even sure if she really came or if I was just sitting alone in the rain pavilion talking to myself. I didn't know, but at least now, in this vast sea of moons, I was sure I was only talking to myself, hah.
Hence, lo and behold, having an endpoint might not have been such a bad thing. Or could it be that all of this was just one big cycle? Heh, no one could say for sure.
I was always like this, lost in thought as I walked along, which made the journey less tedious. And before I knew it, I found myself at yet another place strewn with a heap of poems. It was really quite odd. This place was so vast, the center of the crater was just as large, and the moon was so expansive. How was it that I managed to arrive time and again right in front of these scattered remnants? Oh well, let me take a look first.
She has seen the horizon flowing red. With the clock ticking, she was lost in the horizon of the sky.
She saw the baby's hazy dream, with the rise of dawn, dissipated in the slightly opened eyes.
Photons cross the deep blue, creamy earth and meet on the water under the night, starlight twinkling.
Gravity pulls on the long iron chain, and the weights that cling to the "mass" are imperceptible.
And all that is, will eventually pass away, become chaos, spread forever.
It's like time standing still in light.
Like tears disappearing in the rain.
Usher in death.
Hmm, it seemed not too bad, just a little... ambiguous? It reminded me of a famous play. Come to think of it, why were there always some blank sheets of paper and pens beside these poems? Ha, I guessed it was a hint, wasn't it? Poet, did you anticipate my arrival? If you really had such foresight, then it wasn't so strange for these things to appear before me. So, were you hiding from me? I hoped not.
the Retrospecting-Poem on the Moon
As night approached, the light faded away, and the distant road gradually became clearer.
The temperature had dropped rapidly, so that a little bit of magic spent on maintaining the bubble could be saved. However, I was afraid it was too early to catch my breath. I thought this magic would soon be used to increase the temperature of the bubble again. In short, the heat that I hated so much had gradually dissipated, and the sun had already sunk low on the horizon, about to be swallowed by that huge mouth, but still struggling to emit endless rays of light onto my body, as if trying to leave something behind, melanin? Well, goodbye.
The rough potholes were gradually increasing and spreading across every corner of the earth. I thought this place must have been a place that attracted shooting stars millions of years ago. I thought we were probably approaching the polar region. Crossing here, there would be a different scene, hopefully not so unchanging. With the progress of our steps, the red sun in the sky began to sink into the horizon little by little, while the “blue marble” had long disappeared. The gradually darkening surface of the earth was filled with light and shadow, fighting at the clearly visible edges. With each step forward, the night swallowed up a little more of the day. As our steps gradually moved further away, along with the disappearance of the last trace of light in the sky, pure blackness engulfed every piece of the earth, leaving only the last fan of radiance left by the setting sun on the horizon, which also disappeared along with time and the non-existent footsteps.
Sometimes, I really envied them. I envied the fireworks, even if they only burned for such a moment, they still wanted to illuminate the long night and make the sound resound through the sky; I envied the stars, even if they had to cross tens of millions of light-years, they still wanted their light to shine in the eyes of all beings, even if it would eventually be swallowed by the daylight - go and spread the light of hope to illuminate everything, because it was all worth it, even if it was just for a brief moment. Looking up at the stars and starting to easily think about all this, would it be normal? I thought it would be. Oh, it reminded me of my childhood biology and physics classes again, although they gave me a headache, they worked. Half of the oxygen in my body came from the complex fusion inside that star; that little bit of calcium was just a remnant of a supernova shattered and scattered everywhere; even the lightest and simplest hydrogen also originated from the first big bang at the beginning of the universe, and had the same age as this world. Thinking like this, the expectation of igniting and becoming such a burning spark and the reverie of this bright sky were not so strange.
I pondered, what had become of those stars that I beheld then? Alas, they appeared so splendid, but in reality, they were but remnants of the past, no longer as they once were. Then, could it be that the North Star, which lay not far from the "spoon," had already shattered and vanished, reduced to a dark void or a cloud of stardust, unbeknownst to me? And what of the countless other stars? Dubhe, Merak, Phecda, Megrez, Alioth, Mizar, Alkaid... Among those myriad stars, surely some had already disappeared, and the light they emitted at the instant of their energy level transition had transformed into ghosts of yore, hurtling forward at a speed of three hundred thousand kilometers per second without looking back, unhindered even by the deepest gravitational wells, allowing that final message to be captured by various forms of intelligence or pure light receptors scattered throughout the galaxy, or else dissipating in the course of one hundred and thirty-eight billion years of travel without being noticed.
Indeed, it was high time for a cup of tea.
If one thought along those lines, then the beings on the "Blue Marble" were but remnants like the stars, remnants preserved in memory that had not yet dried up, left behind as I gazed upon them, or chose to depart at some point. The figure of my elder sister, yes, I had an elder sister, but for some reason, my emotions towards her were so complex and unfathomable. Did I love her? Of course, just like every younger sister, my love for my kin would surely not vanish with time – but what then was the other half of my emotion? Was it loathing, incomprehension, anger, and coldness? She must have done something unforgivable, and perhaps my downfall was even related to her, it must be...
Headache.
I recalled her eyes in the peaceful dawn, as calm as the rosy waters of Lake Baikal.
My head ached.
I detested the sun.
My head ached.
Hmm, whenever I thought of such things, my thoughts seemed to churn like the surface of the sea in a storm, mercilessly covering everything hidden on the seabed and overturning those few innocent wooden boats. Why was this? Torture designed specifically for me? Heh, an invisible vice, even if it could not be seen or touched, there would always be a day when it was removed.
The temperature gradually dropped to freezing point, making me suddenly miss the past heat again. Fortunately, this bubble could still barely maintain a temperature that would only give me a cold.
I stumbled.
Walking on a dark surface full of potholes might not be a good idea. I struggled to sense the single horn that seemed to no longer exist, holding my breath and concentrating...
A small sphere of light flickered above it, indicating that the limit that the single horn could support had finally been reached. This small sphere of light struggled to illuminate the narrow space within approximately a two-meter radius around my hoofs, as feeble as the only magic candle in the ocean trench. Well, I had already guessed what would appear beneath my hoofs, and precisely at this moment, the poems were scattered all around me. Ha, that bard was indeed a prophet or a great enchanter.
The lotus root gradually turns green, and the curved water gradually flows to the distance.
Fade the light, fade the wine.
Dripping, quietly drizzle, a few light singing, ripples.
Waving and sprinkling, is the sky stars; A little stray, is jasper light.
Yesterday was the light that jumped away, leaving bright spots across the night, illuminating curious eyes looking up at the stars. Tomorrow will be a burning fire, dispelling the darkness that should not be empty, with the arrow that flies through the sky.
Go, to the far shore.
Go, go to the other side of the universe.
The son of the stars, unbound, will not return.
Oh, “Go, go to the other side of the universe.”But where to? I didn't know where this anger came from, and I kind of wanted to hit the poet on the head again - hah, anger could also be a good reason and motivation. I had already hated this long and boring walk. Could the future successors invent some wheels that could walk by themselves? Preferably fueled by lightning; probably because of this, I was annoyed by this "go ahead". Well, it was better to write a poem to change my mood. I thought that powerful poet must not have gone too far, otherwise, why would he leave these marks for me? Picked up a blank white sheet of paper as blank as my love history, and started writing again.
the Retrospecting-Poem on the Moon
Ouroboros. The stars won't wait for it.
“Bugs in the gutter”.That was probably a pretty accurate description of who I was right then. There was called Moon Creek, but there was not a drop of water in sight, it was just a long winding valley bottom. Fortunately, the road here was relatively smooth, so I could still courage myself to breathe away the magic light, and look up at the bright stars.
Long times ago? I thought maybe there was a star river in the sea. Yes, the star river in the lunar mare, as ridiculous as this waterless stream. If so, there must have been countless fish swimming in the sun and starlight water, touched by gently swaying seaweed wraps, along with the flowing threads of light into the distance of time. And this star? It was the gathering and dispersing stars that shuttled through the bottom of the sea as if the artery of the sea bed flowed, and from time to time took away a few playful fish. The river, moreover, had an end, and in that last inch of liquid, the stars flew straight up into an overhanging waterfall, more sparkling than the ice fountains of Enceladus, and more vivid than the leaping spring water of Canterlot. Eventually, one star after another was embedded in the night sky, sinking into it bit by bit, or bright could fly into the pupil, or dim into the Milky Way background color, like the immemorial pearl tears, and the USS Arizona that was always calm at the bottom of the sea.
Well, was it ridiculous?
Pretty ridiculous. I thought so much, but it was just imagining countless non-existent things. How could there be water here? How could there be poets? No one knew. In this way, ponies were a kind of creature that loved fantasy. They always devoted a lot of time to beautiful dreams and then created so-called artistic things. If we looked at it from the cold reality, I thought this Moon Creek was just the product of a collapsed ancient lava tube or a small trace of crustal expansion. But - did art have no meaning? I didn't think it must be. Mathematics and physics, the foundation of the operation of this small world, that which made the purple pony obsessed with it, perhaps represented the will of reality, but it couldn't be said to be all - why was the illusion impractical again? All this art and imagination were of course a kind of power, an intangible power, a power that didn't work, but it would touch the power of each of us ponies, then it was of course meaningful and could make ponies strive! Even if all these thoughts and fantasies were just the flickering of electrical signals, at least we had come and thought about it, that was all. At least the end was the same in the end.
Haha, it was also wishful thinking, how could we define reality and illusion...
Regarding the ending, I pondered over it many times, but that was the ending of an individual - what about the ending of all things? Some philosophers said that in this expanding box-called universe- was just like the room of a lazy pony who didn't like to clean, without a window, and everything would gradually become chaotic. Slowly, unorganized clothes and garbage bags would fly everywhere, and everything around would become increasingly cold and sticky. In the end, no pony would be in the mood to touch this zero Kelvin room anymore, and everything would be frozen in eternal time and no longer change. Fortunately, there was a small sink in this room, and the ripples in the sink gently rose and fell. As long as there was enough time, a small bubble, a hot bubble in operation, could fly out of it - oh, and no pony knew if we originally lived in a bubble. Another pony said: No, no, this room should be in the shape of Ouroboros. Every time it became messy, it would shrink into a wrinkled ball and then slowly return to a clean state - haha, it sounded like something that the poor wretch pushing the stone on the hillside would say.
However, why think about such distant and bad things? I still had things to do now, although it was not much more real than imagining the future. Let's move forward in the light cone! In this way, it was as if looking at the stars, what we cared about was the galaxy and the points of light, not the darkness filling the gaps between the stars, even though this was the majority of the night sky.
I remembered a writer once said: "We all have two time machines, the one that takes us back to the past is memory, and the one that takes us to the future is dream."
Even if there’s an end, after all.
But, how long was I alone? I could vaguely hear the call of the darkness, perhaps I belonged to all this, to this long loneliness. If I was suddenly thrown into a crowd, maybe I would drown. Being alone and leisurely like this was not a bad thing, it reminded me of the old days when I lay alone on the beach in the evening, and the setting sun gradually floated a path of light on the sea, dyeing the sky from the horizon to the other side of the blue into a crimson color. At that time, a pony told me that he dreamed of venturing into a career, working, and devoting his hard work. And then? I asked him. He just told me that this would earn a lot of pony money and gradually increase his status. And then? I asked again, but he replied: Then you could lie on the beach and watch the sunset in your old age - how absurd. Although it was not that sweating was something that should not be done, it was a part of what ponies were supposed to do. It was just that there was always a small group of ponies sitting on the towers of Canterlot who were keen on taking a large part of the sweat and blood of the workers for their enjoyment, making all this effort and hard work ridiculous. Then it was better to be so lonely on the moon, indifferent to everything, like a dead pony and naturally had no intention of changing anything. With the poems that filled everywhere reappearing on the gray-white ground in front of me, I vaguely felt that something was about to happen, right in front. Thinking about it, I had experienced thousands of things along the way, even if they were similar - from the poles to the Moon Creek, and further... mountains... headache. Mountains, what mountains, craters? I didn't remember if I ever prayed for death - asking it to take me away. But here I was, I had always been - which meant I had to keep going. Well, let's not think about it, let me read the poem first.
Thousands of years of circulation, the sun and moon at the same time glow.
The stream rises and falls through the cone of light.
Slowly and quietly, flying over the edge of the light and gravity well to the edge of the visible place.
There are breeze without noise.
There are clouds without teardrops.
This is a journey without end.
Fall into chaos, leap into the other side of the nebulae and moonlit night, until the thousands of stars fall silent.
There are poems without ink spots.
There are paintings without color.
There is no end to time.
And so it went...
"In eternity, a second has passed."
Alas, inexplicably. Did all poets like this?
The end of this journey was very close, and I could vaguely feel the poet's breath, even if this was impossible. Could his ears capture my voice in this mediumless space, one of the tiny frequencies among the thousands? Could my eyes cross the horizon forged by this small curvature to catch a glimpse of the lunar surface outside the distant time difference?
Maybe inspiration had come, and let me also compose a poem for the end of this stream...
the Retrospecting-Poem on the Moon
There, repeating the cycle anew.
The long road ahead held few surprises. After traversing a lengthy journey, I once again found myself in the sweltering heat beneath the loathed sun. Goodbye, distant stars, although you remained, I could no longer glimpse the golden threads of light you emitted.
I could only hear the thumping of my heartbeat and the gentle thud of my footsteps on the ground, and there was nothing else, perhaps if I calmed my mind, I could still feel the flow of blood. I looked up at the sky that had once again been swallowed by darkness, and then at the moon's surface that had become clear in the sunlight - without surprise, it was still gray and boundless.
Oh, there was a square gray room ahead? I had to go and take a look. A strong sense of excitement had gathered in my heart after a long absence, and I thought the power of fate was at play.
However, I felt a chill throughout my body. Was this the poet's mockery? In the room, all that awaited me were scattered papers and a stack of white paper and black pens on the stage that were out of place with the surroundings. Was this really a room? It would be more appropriate to call it a gray matchbox, after all, there was nothing but a mirror, an earthen platform, and square walls. I glanced lightly at the mirror and reflected inside was a flowing long hair like a ribbon of starry night, with blue pupils and a dark blue face - this was me, nothing to look at. Wait, me? Who was I...
That “blue marble” was of great significance.
I hurriedly rushed to the window and gazed at the Earth in the inky black sky. It remained as serene and beautiful as ever, wrapped in gently swirling clouds.
Haha, Celestia,
You really were?
You really were…
Were you afraid of me?
Or worried about me?
Heh, ridiculous. Was this tenderness or cruelty? Or perhaps a poisoned medicine, half-heartedly, reluctant to do so?
However, if that’s the case, it was already too late. You had led me down this long path again and again; in the end, that Sisyphus-like wretch was just myself – there was no poet here, only a hateful and pathetic Ouroboros.
Was this the best choice?
But there was no time to think about it. If possible, please let this meaningless everything come to an end, or let me imagine that I was happy.
And then, I didn't want to think too much. I just wanted to collapse on the ground and take a short nap...
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.
