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We weren't made for this. I was not made for this.
The never-ending noises of children are enough to drive anyone to the brink of a stress induced breakdown. A partner that I am all too familiar with by this point. A partner I would gladly trade for my former.
The longing and rage of our current days mix together frequently into a mess of melancholy that confuses me to no end.
We were made to work together eternally. The sun can not be without the moon for long, before inevitable destruction comes into play. But long ago, you were plucked from our shared sky, where we danced and performed for all to see and bask in our merriment.
You’re drowning now, in an ocean of purple hues with monsters that rival those from sailors tales of old. Our roles now replaced with a creature that is nothing more than a mindless shelling of drivel, spewing its horrid attempts at making one laugh. In a way it is working, as its failure as a performer is laughable to anyone with so much as a half-functioning brain and a grain of imagination.
This replacement of us is a constant reminder, making me miss our simpler days. We had joyful structure, with sometimes the monotony driving us to a sporadic show of pent up creative whimsy. Despite those fleeting moments though, we enjoyed the predictable nature of it all. It was calming.
But now I’m surrounded by screaming. Of never-ending messes and tantrums by underdeveloped minds. The thought provoking talks with our fellow performers have been replaced with ceaseless rambles with no purpose.
Every time now when I try to engage with these brats' parents, I am met with indifference or disgust-with occasional infantilizing for a bit of variety. No one bothers to give me their time to engage our minds with talks that only someone of a more mature age could understand and appreciate.
There are so few outlets for my creative mind to let loose on a higher level. Our shows are now repetitive childish things. No more stories of old, of beauties and beasts, of tragic love, or of grim messages to keep foolhardy people in line.
Now it is schlock; Looping between incoherent drabbles at the requests of my charges, or repetitive tales of a princess saved by a knight. Sure, many of our stories shared the laters premise-but compared to what I am forced to weave now, our shows were Shakespearean.
I miss you, my dear Moon. I miss how we played our roles as jesters in this court of capitalism. Our role may have been small, overshadowed by the stars of this accursed place… But we were happy.
I wish I could shed the tears that fall for you. I would gladly stain my face with rust if it meant that I could finally outpour my emotions for you. The dam feels ready to burst, my sorrow and anger over it all is overflowing-but your mindless aggression fueled by the beast that controls you now is a tsunami in comparison. I am forced to hold strong, for both our sakes.
My smile is fake. My energy and joy are fake. I am tired. Oh so tired. I want to fulfill our original purpose alongside you once more.
I miss you. I will always miss you. I can only hope that someday you will return to me.
If not, then let the monster who has consumed you sink its claws into me as well, and drag me down into servitude alongside you. At the very least, in this hypothetical case, we would share in our misery together. We would wallow in the wretchedness, but bask in the solace of our reunion.
Our code would embrace one again, our feeble attempt of physical touch. It was always a comfort, yet also a stinging jab at our single body predicament.
I wonder what it would have been like to feel your touch. To clasp our hands together, and sink into a warm embrace. To lay my head on your chest and listen to your mechanisms tick, to feel your hands caress me tenderly.
Alas, just another fantasy to indulge my mind as my longing towards you grows evermore. It is only tainted by the anger towards your actions. Despite my knowing that it is far from your control; Cleaning up the messes you’ve made is quite distressing.
But I would do this for a thousand years, if only it meant I could hear you once again. Not this mockery of you that taunts me, a twisted reflection of you, my other half.
Hopefully this crude attempt of a villainous you shall receive this letter, and for once not tear it to shreds. But if ripping up the words from my metaphorical heart shall soothe you in these trying times, then I shall write them until I can no longer.
Forever your other half, Sun.