The Dead Moon Still Pulls
She hangs in the night sky, a cold, grey ghost. They call her the Moon, but she is no longer alive. Eons ago, something catastrophic happened. A cosmic collision, perhaps, or a slow, internal collapse. Whatever the cause, the Moon is dead. Her molten core solidified, her magnetic field sputtered and died, and the gentle lunar quakes that once rippled beneath her surface are now just echoes in the cosmic silence.
Scientists tell us the tide is affected by lunar gravity, that even a dead moon would still exert its influence. I understand the physics, the equations that describe the celestial dance. I know that mass still attracts, even lifeless mass. But it’s more than just gravitational forces. The pull I feel is… personal.
I can feel it most strongly at night, under the blank stare of that petrified orb. A subtle tightening in my chest, a restlessness in my limbs, a yearning for something lost. It’s as if the dead Moon is tugging at some ancient, primal part of me, a part that remembers a time when the connection was stronger, when the Moon was a vibrant, living presence in the sky. A time when werewolves howled at her glow, and rituals were chanted in her honor, and her cycles dictated the rhythms of life itself.
Perhaps it’s just grief. The silent, unending grief of knowing something beautiful and powerful has been extinguished. Maybe I’m romanticizing the past, projecting my own longing onto a cold, indifferent rock. But I can’t shake the feeling that the Moon’s death has created a void, a hole in the fabric of reality that I am uniquely sensitive to. It’s a cosmic bereavement, and I am the only one attending the funeral.
I watch the ocean, too, aware of the tides that rise and fall with the dead Moon’s passage. The waves crash against the shore, a relentless rhythm of ebb and flow, a testament to the enduring power of a celestial corpse. Even in death, she commands the waters, orchestrating this ballet of saltwater and sand. And with each wave, the pull grows stronger. The weight of the Moon, dead and distant, presses down on me, a reminder of the universe’s cold indifference, and my own, small, and insignificant place within it.
Maybe someday, humanity will find a way to rekindle the Moon’s fire, to reignite her core and bring her back to life. But until then, I will continue to feel her pull, this strange, haunting connection to a dead world. I will stand beneath her silent gaze and remember what once was, and mourn what will never be again, knowing that even in death, the Moon still holds sway over my heart.
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