The man on the moon

The first attempt I ever made at writing something ‘properly’ (i.e. with literary pretensions) was when I was 17. It was a ‘post modern fairytale’ titled ‘Come on in, the water’s fine’.  It told the story of the disillusionment of the first man to walk on the moon, who, upon his return to Earth, watches the human race carry on destroying itself.

The astronaut in my (immature, but not entirely terrible) work was a fictional and symbolic character.

Today, the actual first man on the moon, Neil Armstrong, died.  I was genuinely upset to learn this.

I looked up at the half-moon (a gibbous moon, I think) and thought of how tremendous his journey, how rare his privilege, had been.

He was an inspiration to all of mankind.

And I wish him a fond goodnight.

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