In Nights I speak

Just Moon and Me

These days, whenever I sit down with a book before me and a pen in hand, an unshakable stillness fills my mind. The pages wait patiently, blank and unbothered, as if mocking my inability to place a single worthy word upon them. My fingers hover above the paper, my pen scratches idly, and I tell myself I’m searching for the right thought, the right sentence. But all I find is silence.

It is a strange emptiness — not the peaceful kind, but the sort that makes you feel like a guest in your own mind. My world of letters, once a place of gentle rivers and endless meadows, now feels like a dry well. I lower the bucket of my thoughts deep inside, but when I pull it up, it returns with nothing but the echo of its own hollowness. I don’t understand why. I used to have words for everything — for joy, for sorrow, for the delicate in-between moments no one else noticed. Now, when I try to write, my thoughts feel like distant birds that refuse to land. I can see them, I can sense their wings, but they vanish the moment I reach out.

And yet… every evening, something changes.

When the sun has sunk into the quiet arms of night, and the world has tucked itself beneath the blanket of darkness, I look up. Above me, the moon hangs — serene, patient, ancient. It glows softly, as if it has no need to compete with the stars. There’s a wisdom in its calm, a comfort in its steady light. And in that moment, I find pieces of the words I had been searching for all day. It’s as if the moon carries a key to the locked room of my thoughts. I don’t ask for it — I just look, and suddenly the silence inside me begins to hum. Images start to form: silver light spilling over rooftops, shadows stretching like slow-moving rivers, the quiet breathing of a sleeping world. My heart feels a little fuller, my mind a little warmer. I could write then. I could.

But I don’t.

Because the words the moon gives me are not for the paper. They are mine, and the moon’s, and no one else’s. They are the secret language we have built together — wordless, yet perfectly understood. If I were to write them down, they would no longer belong to us; they would be shared, dissected, read by eyes that cannot feel the same way mine do. So I keep them locked away. I tell the moon things I cannot tell the world. My fears, my unfinished dreams, the fragments of love I have never dared to confess — they all rise to my lips when I am bathed in its silver light. The moon listens without judgment. It never interrupts, never asks me to explain. It simply watches, as though it knows I am made of a thousand stories, even if I cannot write a single one.

In the day, people see me as quiet, perhaps even lost. They do not know that by night, I speak to something older than time, something that has seen kings and beggars, lovers and loners, triumphs and tragedies. The moon has been a witness to every story ever told — and every story left untold.Maybe that is why I keep my words for it alone. The moon does not need ink to remember. It holds my secrets in its craters, carries my emotions in its glow, and reflects them back to me in moments when I need to remember who I am.There are nights when I wish I could translate everything I feel under its light into something tangible — a poem, a letter, a song. But perhaps some things are not meant to be captured. Perhaps they are meant to live and die in a single night, only to be reborn again the next time the moon rises.

And so, my notebook remains empty. The world of letters may be silent for now, but the world inside me is not. It is alive in the quiet conversations I have with the moon. It is alive in the way my chest tightens when I see its pale face appear between clouds. It is alive in the way I smile at it, as if greeting an old friend who knows far more than they say.Maybe one day, I will write it all down. Maybe one day, my words will spill across the pages again, and the emptiness will fade. But until then, I am content to let my pen rest, and let my heart speak in whispers to the moon above.

Because there are stories the world does not need to hear — stories that are meant to stay in the sacred space between a soul and the night sky.And if you ever look up and wonder what the moon is thinking, know this: it is listening. It is carrying secrets you will never know. It is holding words that will never be written. It is keeping safe the quiet confessions of people like me — who, for reasons they can’t fully explain, find it easier to tell the moon everything they cannot tell themselves.

For now, that is enough.

                                                                 Jo❤️