It’s so familiar, but I never really look at it to observe that fact. It’s dark; so full of words that they overlapped again and again until they formed a leaden shape invisible against the black sky and mirages of city structures it calls home. It’s feared by many; by the many who only notice it as a trick of the light, by the many who are afraid to be alone, by the many who are afraid of being in company. It is the object of conscience, silently, dauntlessly following, trailing, pursuing, waiting for the right moment. In silence it speaks, sometimes commanding one’s words to a stop, sometimes quietly listening, but always saying:

There is more.

It is the me that I pretend exists, slipping in and out of sight, watching and listening, with no need to articulate the thousands of words I believe I consist of, for I spend all my time learning. It takes its steps with precision and grace, solely, and yet never lonely. It doesn’t seek another and it doesn’t run from company; it takes what comes and continues. It has no permanent home, and it does not always exist: close your eyes, and it’s out in the world; open them, and you cannot see it; fall asleep, and it’s up keeping watch; awake and it’s simply not there.

It’s me, but it’s seen more, done more, been more. And yet it has no life. It has no form. It’s just another temporary illusion that reminds me of where I am and where I am not.

Perhaps one day I will be able to tie it down, speak with it, ask its secrets. How do you run so effortlessly and carry such quiet charisma? How do you exist with yourself with no reproach? How do I humble myself, how do I be like you? Perhaps one day I may learn.

But for now, it is only my shadow. Crackle. Pond. Night.