The Darkest Side Of The Moon,

The Darkest Side Of The Moon,

There was never anything comforting about the moon after that night. People look up and see something distant, something quiet, but they only ever see the part that allows itself to be seen. No one talks about the other side, the part that never turns, the part that keeps itself hidden. I did not think about it either, not until it found its way into my life without asking.

It started in a way that felt ordinary at first. I was lying in bed, not fully asleep, just resting in that still space where your body is calm but your mind is not completely gone. The room should have felt safe. It was my room, my walls, my window, everything in its place. Yet something felt wrong, not sharply, not sudden, but slowly, like the air had changed without permission.

The silence deepened in a way I had never known before. It was not the quiet of night, not the kind you grow used to. This was something thicker, something that seemed to listen back. I remember turning my head toward the window, not because I expected anything, but because something in me needed to look. The moon was there, but it did not feel like the moon I had always known. It seemed closer than it should have been, and the light coming from it did not feel like light at all. It felt aware. That was the moment I realised I was not alone.

There was no sound of movement, no clear shape at first, just the overwhelming sense that something had entered the space around me. It was not standing in front of me in any normal way. It was there in the edges, in the places your eyes do not fully settle. The feeling that came with it was worse than fear. It was the sense of being completely known, as if every thought I had ever had was open and exposed.

I tried to move, but my body would not respond. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. The stillness held me in place while whatever was there came closer. The temperature dropped, but not like cold air from outside. This was something empty, something without life in it, pressing into the room.

When I finally saw it properly, or as properly as something like that can be seen, it did not have a form that made sense. It shifted, never fully settling into anything human or recognisable. The more I tried to understand it, the more it seemed to resist being understood. Its presence filled the space beside my bed, and I knew, without being told, that it had been there longer than I had realised.

The room itself began to feel unstable. The walls no longer felt solid, and the window no longer felt like a barrier between me and the outside. When I looked toward it again, the sky was no longer what it had been. The moon remained, but everything around it had changed. It was no longer distant. It felt like a place, a real place, not something far away but something that could be reached. Then, without any clear moment of transition, I was no longer lying in my bed.

I was standing, though I had no memory of getting up. The ground beneath me was not a floor but a wide, grey surface that stretched endlessly in every direction. It looked like dust, but it did not move like dust. It felt still, untouched, as if nothing living had ever walked there. Above me hung the same moon, but now I could see that what we call the moon is only part of it. What faced me then was the hidden side, the part never meant to be seen. They were there with me.

Not one, not two, but many. Some stood close enough for me to feel their presence pressing against my thoughts, while others moved at a distance, their shapes barely holding together against the dim, colourless light. None of them had a form that could be clearly described. They shifted, stretched, and bent in ways that did not belong to anything living.

What struck me most was not their appearance, but their patience. There was no rush in them, no sudden movement, no need to act quickly. They existed as if time meant nothing, as if they had always been there and always would be. One of them moved closer, and I felt something pass through my mind, not words, not a voice, but a knowing that did not come from me. This was where they stayed. This was where they had always been.

The darkest side of the moon was not empty. It was a place where things hid, or perhaps a place where they belonged. It was a place that did not welcome light, a place that held something far older than anything we understand. Standing there, I realised I had not been taken by force. Something in me had allowed this, something had opened, and that was enough.

When I returned, I was back in my room, exactly where I had been. The walls were solid again, the window looked normal, and the moon had returned to its distant, harmless place. But the feeling did not leave. Nothing felt the same. The room felt like a copy of itself, like something placed around me to keep everything looking normal.

People did not believe me. They said it was a dream, or something my mind had created. They used words that made it sound small, something that could be explained and dismissed. In the end, they decided I was not well, and they sent me somewhere they thought I would be safe, somewhere they believed would keep me from whatever they thought I was imagining. But I know what I saw. I know where I stood.

And even now, when the night grows still and the silence deepens in that same unnatural way, I feel it again. That same presence, that same awareness, waiting just beyond sight. The darkest side of the moon is still there. And they have not forgotten me.

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