part one.

dear (falsified) evidence, dear (un) certainty, dear (frantic) heartbeat,

This story will be told in seven parts. Stay tuned next for the sound of static in a rainstorm. 

The Stage is Set

There is a girl who lives on the moon. How she got there, or when, are irrelevant questions. You should be asking her questions like:

Are moonbeams as soft as they look?
Do you feel the cold when it slices through your marrow?
Do you even have bones?
Are you even human?
Have you ever loved?

If you thought these questions, and vocalized them, and she happened to have her ear turned toward your soft voice at the precise moment you whispered them, then she would tell you:

No, they are sharp like wolf teeth and just as unfeeling.
There is no such thing as cold because there is no such thing as warmth.
Yes.
Yes.
Once, when I had a heart and a body to hold it with.

If by chance you heard her reply, you would feel far from satisfied. However, her ear would never turn to you again and your further questions would go unanswered. You would grow old and, in your senility, you would forget how to question the world around you. With your organs slowly failing, your hair and skin and nails rebelling against you, your heart beating out of time from the metronome of life, you would find your lips shaping words that slipped from your mind — words from a time when you were young and still thought of the moon in the sky and the girl who lives on it.

In your last moments of almost-life (the time where your soul splits from your body and begins to ascend to its natural place within the astral plane), you would find yourself gazing up at the swollen moon, and in its golden glow your lips would form a perfect round circle and you would die with “oh” a ghost upon your tongue. For in your final breath, the girl who lives on the moon would turn her soft gaze upon you and you would remember her.

There is a girl who lives on the moon. This is a fact. She spends her days and nights and all her in-between times listening. Sound may not travel through the empty vacuum of space, but hearts do, and she hears them all. She does her best to soothe their cracks, or stoke the fire of their love, or tame the fears they hide within. She is not always successful, but she pours her life into this self-appointed work. Some days, she smiles. Some days, she weeps. But every day she listens. This story, however, is not about the girl who lives on the moon; this story is about you. You are not a fact. Not yet.