When they ask what I want to be when I grow up, I say I want to be the moon. It sounds childish, because a rock in space can’t make any money. To put it more clearly: The moon isn’t my future occupation. It’s what I want to be.
She’s covered in blemishes and scars from past traumas, her asteroid lovers and insincere satellites. She got hurt, and it left its mark on her face so everyone for thousands of miles around would never forget.
But she still loves herself. She loves to look at herself. Every night, she draws the ocean closer to her so that she can admire her own reflection. With every surging tide, she breathes in, and then she exhales, the waters recede, leaving tidal gifts on shorelines for children who never raise their heads to say thank you. Her daily routine is the respiration of the cosmos.
They tell me horror stories, about how she strangles everyone who tries to get close to her, she takes their breath away (forever), and people say “what a bitch; she tricked us.” I don’t think she’s cruel. I think she’s scared. Scared of what will happen when she lets down her defenses. If you recall, she’s been battered many times by unkind meteoroids mistaken for visitors. Only the ones who don their helmets and extend the hand of curiosity, show they truly want to get to know her, can even get close.
And it’s true, she’s small, she doesn’t like to take up space. And yet, every now and then, she drifts across the sky to remind us that she can cool the earth, darken the skies, change the course of human existence, and we mustn’t forget that a creature so unassuming can hold immense power.
If they meant “how do you want to make money when you grow up?” they should have asked that in the first place. That’s a completely different question. I will be an astronomer, so I can dedicate my life to studying the moon.