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My eyes question the dark form on the ground, absurdly
pulling off my own distorted silhouette. Expressionless and
apathetic, it still chooses to follow me around and mimic my every
My eyes question the dark form on the ground, absurdly pulling off my own distorted silhouette. Expressionless and apathetic, it still chooses to follow me around and mimic my every move in an act of vague mockery.
The irony is jarring. The blackness is only birthed when there is light around. I suppose there is a sort of poetic subtlety to it that has me intrigued. Science only stands to make the whole phenomenon drab and completely un-magical. I battle down the part of my mind that craves reality and ponder over the strangeness that is a shadow.
Is it insane to wonder if that silent companion is potent enough to be self-aware?
A thinking, scheming creature of sorts, forever bound to me in sorrow or joy. Often, idling away under the noon sun, I find myself trying to spot the shadow act of its own will out of the corner of my eyes. An endeavor that I admit has of yet failed in its task. It might be mere child like superstition that drives me to delve into the subject but it is good enough.
Ive created animal like forms on the wall with its aid; shadow puppets bounding across the wall in a strange dance. My fists crumple into a strange gesture and there on the wall is a dog head.
Tales of the macabre have always inspired in me the belief that there more to the world than meets the eye. Things that defy the laws by which men live, surrounded by an illusion of order. The shadows are all around me, drifting into shapes that shouldnt exist. They creep along, changing form with time, there to see our final demise after which they go free.