The shadow
I’m most comfortable when it’s almost dark. Not entirely, with a few rays of light seeping through, so that I can barely see the outline of my own hands. Yet I can’t see the detail. The space is confined, quiet, there is only the sound of my own lungs expanding and contracting, from moment to moment, again and again. I am curled up in the corner, eyes open, trying to become as small as I possibly can. I am scared to death. I am in the shadow of my own Self.
There is nothing really comfortable about that place at all, yet I return there again and again. It’s familiar. I know the yellow tone of that darkness, the sticky sound of silence. The corner where I lie has taken the shape of my body. I hate it, but I fit in.
When I’m there, all I think about is how to leave. Or rather, all the terrible things that will most definitely happen to me when I do. How I will fail again and again. How I will end up all alone, sick, poor, in a place even more miserable than this one. No, I’d rather stay there. At least it’s dry and warm.
Sometimes I get enough courage to step outside. It’s extremely bright out there. I squint like a mole. I can see every line on my skin. I can see my dreams so clearly too. I make a step towards them — they are so clear I can almost touch them. I make a few more steps, each one getting more and more confident. Some days, I start running. I run like a horse, firmly stepping onto the ground, feeling the play of my muscles in my body. It feels amazing.
And then it touches me again — the shiver of the cold shadow. It has been following me all the way. It moves with me, every step I take. I look at it, I sink in. It grows until I am completely consumed by its darkness again. Only yellow rays are seeping through the cracks.
