Hot Pot Magazine

By Sarah Basalim

Let me show you the ephemerality of my moon, while I stand by the cliff facing the ocean. I was
never lost, the axis held me tight. Gripping me as its soul because in order to see you, I need to
stay on this ground. In the vindicating world I live in, I ignore all the viscerality. At least I could
say that nothing brought me down, trembling on the ground because standing was never the
struggle.

Let me explain to you why the earth is me. If they say music is the symbol of the continuation of
life on earth, then it’s probably the reason why I choose this cliff to look at my moon. In the
border between soil and water, the ocean is where I let the song sink.

Let me tell you the time I heard the waves crashing to the cliff. If I merely wanted to see the
moon, I shouldn’t have bothered with the loud waves. If my moon were to vanish after the waves
stopped crashing, I needed to understand why I was nothing more than a hoarse soil of a soul. I
knew I had wings and could fly. But when I flew off, why didn’t my wings blow the grass? It
was harder to answer now that I asked who moved the waves.

Let me tell you why there were still waves in the ocean. My wings did not sweep the wind, but I
am swelling from the sight of its tune and gesture. My moon, who moved the waves, was
singing, and has probably been sung for two billion years.

Love is audible in the swash.

Before I looked up, I pondered if my moon knew he would never stop serenading. Unlike me,
whom, nevermind. They said if I were the waves who crashed against the cliff, I was told to
crash even harder. Before I got into a dispute, I thought of my moon who made the waves sweep
gently. It is what my moon brings, tranquility.

I recalled my hazy dream in which I saw distinct lines in the sky. It was like seeing the moon’s
raspberry crust emerge at last. Because the bottom half is a stinging periwinkle blue and the
middle section is a melting point of flushed crimson, the spherical shape is split in half. It shines
brighter than the Saturn ring and hurts more than the last time Pluto was removed from the solar
system. If there was ever a time when I could write a lyric to talk about the pain Pluto felt, it is
nothing compared to now. I know I’m seeing my moon one last time before…

Before I look at each of its colors.

A sort of blurry vision transcends me after seeing the crimson shade. The moon is not in pain.
The night has only started to transmit lights to the children awake on the village beyond the cliff
I am standing on, so I am confident that it is only sensing their sorrow. The moonchildren believe
that the Saturn ring has floating rocks as heavy as the moon, and as heavy as their burden to fall
asleep. The crimson shade paid homage to their congested hearts.

The crimson flushed on my moon’s cheeks. I wane in ease every time I see my moon’s baked
cheek rising because it’s a wry to my happiness, just a second before it starts laughing. A
mischievous chance to steal but I let it slide. The crimson is an etch to what I feel about my
moon, but if I say that now, all of this writing goes for nothing, so here I ask my moon if I could
continue to look at its blue shade.

A roguish blue shade was seen from my moon that night. Why, the blue is not a duplicate of the
sky, an unblinking territory my eyes had ever laid on. The girl with the blue satin sashes loves
when the silver white winter melts into springs, but I don’t want the snowflake to fall on my
eyelashes. I want my moon to light up so the long strands have a longer shadow on my temple.
That is when I know my moon sends me its light through all four seasons.

My moon has a blue crater because it stores the moonchildren’s dearest wishes to the tooth fairy.
I once had a wild eye and thought I saw the tooth fairy, but it was only in the light of my moon. I
remember perfectly why I wanted my tooth to come off, it was because I wished to see the tooth
fairy but instead my moon stored my tooth in the basket full of my tears. Again, I etched my
moon because it has always been with me growing up.

My moon is the paradox of youth. As young as I am standing on the cliff, as forever as the life I
yearn to preserve. I listen to my moon’s voice on the brink of never-breaking sour cherry pitch
while I gaze at my moon without a telescope while feeling the wind serenade me and the ocean.
My favorite voice to listen to every day.

My moon has words that are deep on its end, the one I depend on. I’ll continue to deepen it just
like how I depend on its depth. Its moonlight transcends time and space, just like how my moon
recently became a wanderer. My moon is never a lost boy.

I look at my moon one last time, because I know it will come back.

Sarah Basalim is a Bachelor of Media Studies at Universiti Malaya and is now laying low to find
her writing style. She enjoys her Jazz Hip Hop playlist and has a pile of science fiction books in
her reading list. Her works which are mostly published on Medium are varied from book and
movie reviews, art exhibitions, reflections, and flash fictions.