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Howling at the moon (even if she’s not texting back)

There I was again—howling at the moon. Alone, dramatic, channeling my inner mystical creature, like some kind of cosmic karaoke soloist. But here's the twist: I’m not actually alone. I’ve got my wolf pack. My people. My crew. So why does it still feel lonely sometimes?

Isn’t that a paradox? To be surrounded by others, yet still feel like you’re sending your emotions into the void? Classic “lone wolf in a group chat” energy. You're there, you're seen, but you're still howling like you're the only one in the woods.

And the moon? Oh, the moon. She’s just up there—chilling. Frozen. Silent. Not even a flicker of interest. Not the warm, dreamy moon I usually imagine when I’m in my soft, romantic feelings. More like... emotionally unavailable celestial body. I pour my soul out in long voice notes to the sky, and she leaves me on "read."

Still, I howl. Not because I expect the moon to answer, but because it’s what we do. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s just part of being human (or vaguely wolf-adjacent). We reach out, we express, we process. We howl, even when the moon is being kind of cold and distant.

And that’s okay. Because even in those quiet, one-way conversations with the universe, there’s something healing about the release. About letting it out. About knowing that somewhere, someone else might be howling too—and maybe, just maybe, they're howling back.

So if you’re out there, standing under a silent moon and feeling a little too seen by this post, just know: you’re not alone in your howling. The pack is real. And even if the moon isn’t answering tonight... the echo of your voice still matters.

Now, deep breath. One more howl—for connection, for catharsis, for the sheer weird beauty of it all.