The moon is not to be trusted, they said. It is far too fleeting; a moonbeam is so much like a firefly. You think it’s hedged into a shrub. You tiptoe towards it, hoping to twist a slice of it between your fingers and rub it on your cheeks and next day, they will find you down with a moon-fever, the thermometer will read like a moon. A new moon for a new patient, day one for a just-ill one, day two for someone struggling to get well, day ten for a hopeless soul, and by the time it’s a full moon, you are deliriously unwell, settled into lunacy. We however claim to know otherwise. The moon is our only succour. From grief which sneaks in on a wild party night to a drizzling afternoon when we have our noses smelling of caffeine, from long strides alone on sand dunes with our feet falling into sand traps to those elbow jostles at a crowded market place where pumpkins and spring onions are our larger than life companions, through love that disowns itself, to dreams which taper off into murmurs of defeat, from demons to desires, from tears which curled up in the folds of our skins to happiness curves which straightened before they got noticed, the moon, we say, is our only hope. Fleeting, yes. Unsteady, yes. But our best mirror.