New Moon:

I'm invisible. Tucked away within the secluded home of my mother's womb. Untainted by society, untouched by the wrongs of the world outside. I'm whole, yet not whole. Unfinished in form, but within me, something stirs. A yearning.

I long to see her face—

She who sustains me.

She who cares for me.

She who sings me melodies of love.

I know I am not ready,

But still,

I want to leave.

There is another voice I ache to match with a face. A deeper voice, rough on the surface, yet layered with softness and care. And at its core, fragility.

It speaks to me.

It echoes through the walls of this sanctuary in a beautiful, pulsing symphony.

A sound I could listen to forever.

A sound I need to experience without separation.

I need to leave this cocoon.

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First Quarter:

My life is soon to begin as I escape the clutches of academic systems.

The future is all I can imagine. Living. Really living.

Putting away the heavy books that have consumed the past two decades,

books that have likely seen my face more than my own parents.

And finding a partner.

Someone who sees me, understands me.

Someone I will spend my life with,

who will help bring our children into the world.

The good is yet to come.

Happiness is yet to breathe its comforting breath.

And I... I am yet to be a true adult.

I am still figuring out who I am

and who I want to become.

Determining the people I cherish,

the voices that call out to help.

My parents are still around.

Their presence, a soothing harmony—

lifting me, supporting me.

They believe in me and my dreams.

But they are not enough.

I need to expand.

I need to mold a family of my own.

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Full Moon:

I am whole.

A complete entity of self-sufficiency.

I am what I desired—

Independent.

An adult.

I have a wife, children,

a home of my own.

Life has almost begun—

almost.

I am broken.

My will drifts—

pulled by life's current.

No one can see it,

not unless they look close.

But even then,

they’d see only minor scratches,

hairline fractures

along a glass surface.

But inside—

the core is crumbling.

My soul bleeds

quietly.

I work a lot.

My days blur

into a cycle of labor and exhaustion.

I have so much…

and yet,

I am still alone.

I provide the house

my family lives in,

but I don’t live there.

I live in my head.

Because if I didn’t—

if I didn’t retreat

into the recesses of memory and thought—

where would I be?

A cubicle?

A number?

A shell?

No.

I refuse to let that be my only world.

I had dreams.

Hopes that life would be spent

with those who care,

not beneath the fluorescent hum

and blank white walls

of a 7-by-7 cube.

All I need is a few more years.

Years of longing.

Of quiet despair.

Of slowly wearing thin—

just until I make enough.

Enough to finally live.

But until then,

I remain.

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Last Quarter:

People are slipping away.

Like sand, they fall through my clenched fist,

though I hold on with all my strength.

First, it was him—

He who I loved so deeply.

He who loved me.

The pressure of his hands on my shoulders still lingers.

I can feel the strength,

the steadiness of his palms

as he paraded me through the streets like a trophy.

And then it was her.

She who carried me.

She who sustained me with such affection.

She who can only truly be described with one word:

Mother.

When will life finally begin?

When can I finally live

with happiness and satisfaction?

As I continue searching,

others are getting lost.

I miss the past—

the black and white of youth,

a world where they still existed,

where the gap between us

was not so wide.

Emptiness is all I feel.

I am no longer whole,

but split in two:

One part longs to join them,

to be with them forever,

to never feel this pain again.

The other part

wants to stay—

for my wife,

for my children.

The world hasn’t ended,

not while they are still here.

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Dark Moon:

They all stand around me, watching as my soul slowly slips away. I can see their sadness. All I want is to comfort them—to wipe away their tears and embrace each one.

But I can’t. And that’s what makes it so difficult.

My hands are being held tightly, and I manage to lift my chin to see her face.

My wife.

Her face glistens as the sunlight reflects off her wet cheeks. I smile. It’s silent, but I can hear their hearts beating in unison—aching.

They are losing a father, a husband, a friend.

But I am losing me.

The air is thick, like night without a moon, as death creeps slowly into the room.

It’s strange—almost sacred. I am consumed by pain, and yet, for the first time, I feel none.

I feel complete.

I can finally see that I lived—

and that it was enough.