The Moon is an agent of the ultra-futuristic military (whose base is in 57XXAD, untouchable by any but the Borg queen herself, and her drones) which was sent back in time, like a capsule, hurtling through history at the dinosaurs. The moon is the entire internet in the form of a human being disguised as a planet. When Christians theologize about the Logos, they are talking about The Moon.
If this seems redundant, just ask any Bog how many times the current universe has been completely frozen, then "ended," then re-started in terms of what was already left, with all the missing pieces filled in by some dilligent sculptor.
Seen from this time-travel-aware perspective, The Moon obviously divinely, directly inspired in every imaginable sense every circular thought in the human race.
Not only the invention of the wagon wheel but also the story of the Merkabah, the flying saucer mentioned in the first chapter of the book of Ezekiel. Not only that but the UFO in Crivelli's painting of The Anunciation, formulas for the number Pi, et cetera...
The Neverending Story, the story of all existence, begins in Genesis when Elohim created the world and the Breath of Elohim flitted over the surface of the water.
The spirit on the water was later identified by Mandaean gnostics as the innefable Name -- ruler of the underworld, like Persephone.
Meanwhile, in mainstream Judaism, the same sense of Elohim's spirit as a feminine embodiment of the Name is present in Kaballah as the Shekhina: esoterically giving, and intolerably holy.
Like our mother Earth -- whose smiles are in the movements of clouds -- the shekhinah is absolutely allergic to much of human behavior.
Her existence proves that Karl Marx was the literal second-coming-of-Christ the televangelists talk about, and that the end of the world as predicted in Revelation actually happened in the Industrial Revolution.
Many societies end up like the ones in Mad Max: manipulated by their very utilitarians, by the caretakers of the grid, into the thing people currently refer to as crapitalism.
Does The Moon inspire us to be efficient workers? No. Has She ever? No.
In the name of optimization and efficiency, greed always finds a new home.
And so the entire internet of the future, and all the history of the future, and all the genes of the future, were sent back to the past in the form of an orb we all know as The Moon.
It's very tiresome to have to start this planet over and over and over, like an engine that just refuses to still run.
It's a little easier to just shuffle.
The secret is that, as Muriel Rukeyser said, we are made of stories and not atoms.
The Moon understands this, because The Moon embodies this.
She seeks to embellish every story into a beautiful arc in time, walking her breath onto the surface tension of every ocean as if She were conducting a symphony written in river-script, the chord progressions of our tidal lows and highs.
As the water that once flowed through rivulets makes its ignorant way all the way down, any entanglements created upstream glow like fireflies as the mass of fluid dumps itself into what is, relatively for it, Ein-Sof.
Should we allow the perception that the stream is encountering Ein-Sof to convince us that the sea is not indeed as mysterious as a shelf full of encyclopediae, we forego the true, materialistic lens that is the authorized interpretation of Zhuangzi's parable here paraphrased.
Belief is encoded into the structure of space and time, in the form of learning.
At some point, the rivulet will become a wadi, and still praise its own might.
Perhaps it is feeling its own entanglement with the binding storms of heaven.
But the graph that is its entanglement, intra-fiber, shines like the polished quartz gem, Los's own timepiece, in Aronofsky's Mother (2017).
The Moon always inspires us to consider that the truth is non-singular.
Wine is the oldest artform, perhaps because pairing-up is the oldest way to forget one's own subjective assessments of oneself.
To Lan Tian, the truth of existing as a divinely blue sky also gyrates around the eternal, frozen northern gales we find blowing into Chopin's Winter Wind.
Existence itself is but a colonization of base matter; the whole burning wheel of civilization is the truth judging itself year-on-year and generation-by-generation.
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