Since the inception of dirt, questions have carved themselves to fit in the name, the behavior, the way it heals. Questions such as – why is it called dirt if it could make man? Why does it all prostrate to water? Is it never hot to heal a wound? Questions only on dirt have answers rinsed in the creation story, but none of it beats it like the moon.
The moon – she’s a sister to the sun and cousin to the stars, empress of the night and soul of the dark. A witness to atrocities especially when men were just mere mortals not abominable shades of different dirt. Men have grown dark with oscillating emotions that lift them towards heaven. Nothing beats me like when a man marked a date to go and see the moon after his answers forgot their tongues on the staircase in Babel. If the moon decides to expose us, where would ever be perfect enough for us to hide our flaws?