Sunkissed
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Dear Bolu,
Lately, the Sun has been out to get me. To be fair, it’s always been like that, but recently, it has been incredibly intense in my pursuit. I told everyone who cared to listen of the danger I was in, and all but one person either called me delusional or laughed at what they concluded was a joke. I know I joke a lot, and I jest even in grave situations, but it’s my life I’m talking about. Why would I joke about that? I wouldn’t joke about my life, although it’s entirely a joke. And delusional? They called me delusional, which is only two stops away from temporary residence in a mental hospital—at least, I hope it’s temporary. Delusion. Paranoia. Schizophrenia. Boom! I’m the quiet patient in the corner that stares blankly at both curious and mundane things because my mind’s buried somewhere in The Trench, Marianna. Oh, you don’t think me delusional, do you? Although you never reply to my letters, you read them, don’t you? I know you’re pretty busy, and that’s fine. But you read them. You read them. I know you read them. I’m not delusional. I mean, sometimes I say words of affirmation to my mirror, but everybody does that, don’t they? Including you, of course, you say things to the back of your mirror as I do, right? I can’t be delusional.
Well, I kid you not about the Sun. Whenever I leave the confines of my home, he’s just outside waiting for me. He goes wherever I go, which is strange because his name isn’t Ruth, and I sure as heaven am not Naomi. Believe me; I’d know if I had a feminine name. He follows my every move. He’s on my tail without fail. He creeps behind me, and it gives me the creeps. My only escape is nighttime or staying holed up in a building. Relentless. It’s a marvel how I’ve not been able to see him in motion. I can tellingly feel the glare of his eyes at the back of my head, but each time I turn to him in hopes that I’d see him moving, he becomes transfixed like one standing on a mine. Every time I try, I fail. And when I tell people to be my lookout and catch him red-handed—I might have to check this as I’m not sure he is even handed at all, or odd handed for that matter—they call me crazy. One lady said I must have been dropped on my head as a baby. Yeah, people are mean. But she was pretty, so I laughed it off.
Oh, the Sun. It’s as though he leans ever so closely to kiss me. No! I don’t want him to. But some people enjoy this particular experience. They are, for some reason, extremely pleased when it happens. Unable to contain their delight, they take pictures of themselves in the very act and post them on social media with the caption, “sunkissed”. Yes, they do that. They post images of themselves in that intimate moment and feel no shame about it. I couldn’t imagine myself doing that—it’s not even possible. Were I to get kissed by the Sun, I would melt. And I mean that literally, not in the James-loving-Betty type of way. So I wonder what people’s bodies are made of because it has to be different from mine to survive a sunkiss. I would melt or vaporize, which would be the extreme definition of a hot romance. No, thanks.
What I find most intriguing about the whole thing is that nobody calls the Sun out. Nobody criticizes or judges him, which baffles me because the Sun kisses many people daily. You could not even begin to fathom the amount of stick any other person would get if there were overwhelming evidence that they kiss people with reckless abandon. They’d be called promiscuous, cheats, unfaithful, and the epitome of irredeemable depravity. But not the Sun, no. He’s praised and adored. He gets the accolades. He’s untouchable because perhaps he can end us if he so desires. Sunkissed this, sunkissed that. What a tyrant. He kisses everyone he sees, and no one bats an eyelid. Ah, maybe we bat our eyelids, but we can’t let him see us when we do hence the sunshades we wear. Damned Sun! My God, he kisses kids. I—
The loser in all this is, unfortunately, the Moon. Oh, the Moon. Everyone knows he's good looking, but no one wants to be seen with him. He's the cool kid you like but are embarrassed to associate yourself with publicly. We’d rather be seen with the archetypal bad boy, the Sun. That's why no one ever posts a picture of themselves with a caption, "moon-kissed". No one. To compensate for our embarrassment and feel better about ourselves, we take photos of an isolated moon and use captions such as "the Moon is so beautiful tonight" to give him, quite ironically, a moment in the Sun. And we're never in said picture. Oh, the Moon. He's not as flashy as the Sun, but he's gentle on our eyes. He's not harsh on the skin, no. He's rather cool. He doesn't make us anxious or sweaty, no. He's refreshing. He doesn't force us to carry umbrellas, wear shades, hats, screens or, in fact, anything at all. He says, "come as you are. I won't judge, I promise. I'm bare, as you can see". It's why we can stare at the Moon comfortably. But not the Sun. Oh no, not that pervert. We'd have to squint our eyes and shield them with our hands because he's hiding something. Damnedest Sun!
The Moon is a rather lonely figure. I know because I talk to him. He tells me things, usually in dreams. I tell him things as well. I told him about you. I told him about my trouble with the Sun, and he didn't call me paranoid. I told him I'd write to you about it because you're my friend. I told him I'd ask you to talk to him. He'd like it if you did. He’d like it very much. Oh, and when you say hi, tell him you’re my friend. Better, tell him you’re a friend of the moon-kissed caveman. And he’ll kiss you too, dear friend.
Fin.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy