Moth On the Moon

The Moon was an ancient relic. 

For all of time, it floated in the well of gravity around its nearby neighbor of blue and white--a colorful contrast to its own raiment of grey and brown. Cold. Distant. Still. 

A silence far deeper and eternal than whether or not an unobserved tree makes a sound when falling.

From the perspective of its nearby blue and white sister, the Moon rotated around her with apathy, but not without influence. That influence asserted itself subtly, almost passively, on the dark waters of the world beneath it. Even the earth itself would be pulled and stretched, undulating imperceptibly toward her as the Moon wandered across the sky impossibly out of reach. 

As steady as the sun itself, she raised and flattened our tides. Her orbit guided the fertility cycles of countless generations of mothers and sisters and daughters. Her stoic glow peeked back at us from behind veils of waxing or waning shadow month after month, year after year, century after century. Millennia after millennia; essential and mysterious.

Her passive influence affected the foundations of life itself. From the deepest ocean to the highest peak, all life used her as a heavenly guide, an orbital Virgil, ushering us further and farther, calling us to her, while remaining herself utterly unattainable.

Untouchable. Unassailable. Unknowable. 

Until we captured her.

The humble moth was the first to herald this cosmic shift in fate. Midnight's butterfly evolved to use the Moon's cycles, and nighttime glow, to navigate the dark skies, fluttering through the curtain of shadow by its light, searching for his destined mate.

The moth beats its wings upon the air after her; ever pursuing her light and never arriving. Never, until, at last, one ambitious moth perceives a light in the distance that dared to match the brilliance of his skybound siren. Changing his target, the moth navigates toward that dull orange glow amid the trees. How could he know, after millions of years of finely tuned instinct tailored specifically to the pull of the Moon, that the moth was now fluttering into the open door crack of a little home, lit as if on fire with electric lights and burning bulbs, even in the darkest dead of night?

I watched, as a child, as the moth flew in thrilled, concentric spirals up and down and around the powerfully bright bulb of our standing corner lamp. It blazed with the power of searing hot wattage, too burning hot to touch. And yet, the moth danced around it, ignorant--or bathing in--its mighty brilliance and heat.

How could I ever know the excitement the moth must have felt in that moment, when, finally, after millions of years of tireless pursuit, one moth finally attained the impossible Moon.

"At last!" it might have proclaimed, breathlessly, remembering with honor the untold billions of generations of foremoths that came before it, each of whom had tried in vain their entire short lives to arrive at this moment: to the moth's first landing on "the moon."

I watched him circle and dive, daring to alight upon the bulb's surface. That it could be anything but the Moon never entered into its dim perception: how could anything this bright, this satisfying to its instincts, be anything else? Did it feel the scalding burn on its tiny clawed feet? The melting scorch of powerful vibrancy upon its fuzzy exoskeleton? Even if it had, what did it care? This moment was the reason it had been born. Not just his life's purpose, but the purpose of all his foremoths, was on the precipice of being fulfilled.

As a boy, I watched in amazement as the moth continued to spin and dive until at last, its body and wings burned completely onto the surface of the bulb, sticking its tiny fluttering body to its blinding globe. Unable to fly away, he ignites quickly, turns black and melts--a trickle of grey smoke wafted up into the corner of the living room, the smell of burning hair filling my senses like incense from a censer.

Perished from the Earth, perhaps-- but nonetheless, a worthy sacrifice. A noble cause. The thrill of adventure and the peace of mind knowing he was the first. The first moth to land on the Moon.

Entirely outside of that moth's knowledge, he was but one of millions of insects to be drawn toward the fabricated luminosity of electric light and die. Entirely outside of that moth's knowledge, two men--Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin--reached an even more audacious milestone two decades earlier, descending down from a lunar lander ladder to sink their boots into the glassy dust of the real Moon itself and proclaim, with the world in thrall:

"This is one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind."

And, incredibly, not die upon that sacred distant plane--but returned to live and breathe and walk again upon the face of her blue and white sister, far beneath her.

The moth melted and died in sacrificial glory. Two human men, without wings, shot themselves into the air to land on millions upon millions of years of silence amid space before returning back home with a roar of engine fire.

Armstrong and Aldrin were the only men to ever truly land on the Moon, when all was uncertain--when dying at the attempt would still be deemed victorious.

Everyone else, following in their footsteps, has been called astronauts and explorers, but nonetheless, through no fault of their own, has merely been a tourist, great as they may have been.

Their return to that heavenly body contributed only toward the trivialization of traveling to her.

For eons, the Moon was an unattainable beauty. Then, incredibly, her virginity had been won.

And, once her maidenhead had finally been taken, there came following a lustful zeal to return for more supplication, again and again, until before long Apollo's successors turned the Moon from explorer's maiden to mankind's harlot.

Then, no longer spellbound by her mystique, we stopped returning to her, content to resume our past admiration from afar, secure that we could go back and have our way with her again, if we wanted to.

And we didn't; until we did. 

Time passed, and now, a new generation has grown up without knowing her--and are resuming their ambitions to not only return to her, but to make even greater affronts to her dignity than ever.

Today, the Moon has long been stripped of her hallowed myth and secretive allure. Instead, she is eyed as an untapped asset. A future resource. An opportunity to exploit for profit. 

She is no longer an ancient relic. She is a gas station attendant. A carnival. The world's most expensive vacation destination.

The space race has been reborn by ambitious conglomerates to expose her riches and manipulate the insatiable hubris of mankind to commodify the beauty of her desolate complexion.

The first rung in a ladder that will allow future conglomerates even greater access to rape and pillage along the spirals of the Milky Way.

How could it have come to this? Millennia of silent, luminous contemplation and the slow, passive influence of her gravitas upon our evolutionary forebears, to someday yield beneath the construction of the SpaceX Lunar Resort; the BlueOrigin Crater Steakhouse; the NASA Hydrogen Refueling Station.

Why has this happened? The same reason why moths do not build hotels, restaurants and waystations on light bulbs. Countless moths have been consumed in the flames of Earth. 

The Moon has yet to eat the flesh or drink the blood of man.

How might our respect for the Moon be different today if Neil and Buzz had not returned? If their success has led us here, the burning moth's doom may yet still give way to some balance, and a return to a proper awe and wonder for our Moon. 

What remains is only one final frontier left for mankind to attain, before we realize our harbored lunar ambitions. Like Thích Quảng Đức and the first moth on the Moon before me, all that remains is determining who will be the first to perish on the Moon.

"It should be me," I realized one night, when staring up at the ancient Moon above, just as I had my whole life up to then. But this time it was different. 

This time, it came with a somber realization not that it should be me, but that it could be me.

"I'm going to die on the Moon," I prophesied in a whisper.

Since its founding many millennia ago, death has been transformed from strife and sacrifice into a meaningless act of submissive decrepitude. Death used to purchase something; a meal, a shelter, a brief but meaningful progression for the tribe. Today, it's powerless, lingering and largely unseen by enormous swaths of society. 

Precious few understand the arresting power of a good death. A death that can mean something, and can add purpose to the life that preceded it. A death that can earn remembrance. 

A death is only tragic if nothing was gained. No meaning. No purpose. No new horizon discovered. 

With every corner of Earth bought with blood--every nation claimed through sacrifice and every treasure earned through noble death-- little left remains in the world today which hasn’t already been claimed through some past death.

What death could I possibly attain, on Earth, that would mean more than being the first man to die on the surface of the Moon?

And it will be the very space commercialization infrastructure that will allow me to do it.

The cost of commercial travel to space remains speculative, especially for such "exotic" destinations such as a Lunar base. As of this writing, estimates range up to $100 million and beyond. An astronomical sum, indeed--so I have to begin today.

The quest has given my life unbelievable clarity of vision. All priorities, questions and concerns narrow decisively around a single objective: will this bring me closer to my destiny, or take me further from it?

A death we choose gives every moment of life lived a new, succulent flavor that was imperceptable before it was chosen; before was only fear and uncertainty. Now, only resolve, and hope for the future, remain. 

I pour my vigor into my work with greater relish than ever, fueled by drive and purpose to make my way there, someday. It may take a decade, it may take four; but a death of my own volition has given more significance to my life than any other pursuit I’ve ever endeavored. 

Because it will be my death.

Because it will be the first death.

Because it will be a death that will be remembered.

So far into the future that they may doubt I ever existed, though they know my name and how I died. 

No matter the obstacle, I must get there. And thus, a space race of my own has begun. 

My vision is to be among the first vessels of civilian spacefarers allowed to purchase a ticket to visit the Moon. It will be marketed as a tourist destination, a propagandistic milestone toward inevitable space conquest. Manifest destiny-- manifest finality. I will be warned, directly and through contract stipulations, of the tremendous dangers and risks to my life I will face by going. They will call me brave, but they won't know that the risk is the point. 

The training will be severe--but I will already have years of conditioning and preparation behind me. 

The rigors of space travel will take their toll on one's psyche--but I will have already reconciled, and made peace, with my life. 

My fellow travelers will anticipate media interviews, epic photo and video opportunities, and bask in the glow of overnight worldwide fame. I will be saying goodbye to the world, in my heart of hearts, as I look out at the world that reared me, before boarding my vessel.

If one anxiety plagues me throughout the launch, it's the fear of untimely death. Dying a martyred holiday traveler is leagues short of my true ambition. 

I close my eyes and wait for the countdown, the rumble, the violent explosion as the rocket leaves Earth--a catastrophic eruption so close to death and destruction it may be impossible to discern from life until the weightlessness of space makes my relaxed limbs slowly levitate. 

The anxiety will abate, but not fully relent, until we are There. In the meantime, the three-day journey through night, will ebb. Earth--an overwhelming blue and white womb, slowly diminishes--as the distant white gemstone glowing ahead patiently dilates as we approach.

Nervous crewmates will come near, their eyes round as saucers, and ask if I am as excited as they are.

In response, I will tell them about a memory I had as a child, watching a moth perish and light on fire in the blazing glow of our stand up lamp, and the smell of its tiny body melting into dust in the lamp bowl.

They may wonder what I mean. They will understand, soon, if they ever do.

Unlike that moth, I have no presumptions about being the first to land here.

Unlike that moth, I understand, and choose willingly, my purpose. My death.

Every inch of the world has been baptized in the blood of man. Every nation fought and died for. Every sovereign land paid for in sacrifice and death.

If we are to live there, how is it that the Moon should be any different? 

If we are to live there, permanently, we have to make it ours.

We have to earn it. And in three days of restless travel, the time will come.

I'll hold my breath as our capsule prepares to land. 

We'll feel the gentle sinking of our lander's legs into the sandy dunes of the Moon, and settle.

With eagerness and excitement, my fellow millionaire travelers will don their space suits, and nervously jockey into position so that they may be first from our vessel to venture out into the expansive, beautiful desolation of the lunar surface, and gaze upon it with their own waking eyes.

They already know they aren't planning on staying. They're already imagining the reputation and clout this trip will afford them back home. When they look at me, though, they begin to see the Moon's first eternal resident, whether they recognize me for what I am to be, or not. 

I can stand aside. I can wait a little longer. But already I can look out the porthole and see a rise in the land beyond; a geological altar of white and grey, facing home Earth.

That is the spot. I will make for it. The knowledge that the time has come has deepened the resolve further within me. I can hear the heartbeats of my ancestors within my ribcage.

"You seem so calm," one of the passengers may remark. I will nod.

One by one, we'll descend the ladder. I'll look at their faces as they turn and look to the craters that dot the landscape around us. They're awestruck now, but that majesty will inevitably wane the longer they are here. After the novelty fades and the routine sets upon them. After they have had the opportunity to take the ancient relic of the Moon fully for granted.

I'll wait for my opportunity to step aside from the group, and walk far enough away so that no one will be able to stop me, if they happen to notice me. 

I'll ascend the plateau. The first ever, surely, to stand exactly here, on this spot, in all of existence. In all of the universe. 

This is a good spot. This is my spot. My eternal spot. For all of time. 

I'll look at the Earth. A view unimaginable to the ancient man I sprung from, millennia ago, who may have looked at the Moon on a night like this. I try to imagine what dreams and nightmares the ancient Moon symbolized for him, long ago. I imagine, but cannot know. 

I'll remember the burning moth, the line of grey smoke drifting upward. A noble death. An honest death. A chosen death that gave some meaning to my life as I enacted it; gave me comfort as I assumed it. 

I'll take off my helmet. The thick, clumsy gloves will make it a challenge, but I'll be patient. The moth flew excitedly around the bulb in concentric circles and dives until he got it right.  Then, a mighty depression and exhale of pressure removes all thought at once.

Neither scalding hot or searing cold, the only sensation is blinding silence, and the deadening of all senses, in an instant.

For a glimmering moment, there I am: kneeling on the Moon, facing Earth, lit in the light of the sun, exposed to the vacuum of space--as all thought slowly drains from me and my vision fades.

That it could be anything but the Moon never enters into my dimming perception: how could anything this bright, this satisfying to my instincts, be anything else? Do I even feel the grip of death around me? Even if I do, what do I care? This moment is the reason I had been born. Not just my life's purpose, but the purpose of all my forefathers, fulfilled.

The surface of the Moon will take me.

The first man to die on the Moon.

I hope they bury me there.