Chasing the Moon

His car pierced the blackness like an arrow through ink.  He was chasing the moon.

The moon was his dream. It was a speck of light in a dark sea of hopelessness. It controlled the tides of his life. Its pull kept moving him forward. He drove toward it every night, aiming for its guiding light.  The moon was always out there. And he going after it like a moth to a flame.

People mocked his chase. “It’s folly,” they said. “You need a rocket,” they laughed. They then teased, “Who do you think you are, Neil Armstrong?”  But he didn’t listen. He kept pushing past them.  Why stay grounded with those without dreams?  He would someday plant his flag on the moon. He’d prove them wrong.

He kept chasing until the day he died.

The moon was his dream. And in the end, the journey was amazing.  Much more amazing than if he had chosen to stay with the skeptics.   He accomplished great things. He saw even greater things.

He chased the moon, but in the end, he caught the world.