Sometimes I stare at the moon for a long time not because I’m fascinated by its beauty, but because it feels like a mirror. It watches the Earth silently, while we, the restless ones, keep running in circles chasing money, validation, or some shape of happiness we can’t quite name.
The moon never changes. It doesn’t advertise its glow, doesn’t compete for attention. It simply exists, effortlessly beautiful in its own way. And that makes me wonder if I were offered a chance to visit it, to stand on that silent land and see the Earth hanging like a blue dream in the dark sky… how much would I pay?
At first, I think in numbers millions, perhaps. The cost of rockets, suits, survival. But then I realize the question isn’t about money. It’s about value. What would I give up to reach that faraway stillness? My comfort? My memories? The people who make Earth feel like home?
Maybe the real journey to the moon isn’t measured in distance, but in detachment. To reach it, I’d have to let go of noise, ego, the weight of everyday worries. Maybe I’d have to become lighter not just in body, but in soul.
And then, a quiet thought: perhaps we already visit the moon every time we choose peace over chaos, truth over convenience, silence over applause. Maybe the moon isn’t somewhere above us maybe it’s that place inside us that remains calm, unshaken, and full of light even in the darkest night.
So if you ask me, how much would I pay to go to the moon?
I’d say everything that keeps me from feeling alive. Because the journey to the moon isn’t about leaving Earth… it’s about returning to yourself.