shadow self

He stops, sees his shadow lying flat on broken concrete, his mind paints the scene. The colors are invasive, like unwanted species they come uninvited into a world to which they don’t belong. He reminds himself to keep on task, but he remembers he has none. Walking is the thing. A church bell struggles to be heard amidst the traffic din. Church was a prison when he was younger. He’s not sure he ever escaped. The weight of memory chains tug at him from time to time and remind him that he gave up so much of his life there. He’ll never get that back. He’s angry about that. Best not to dwell on the past. It takes up too much of the present. That kind of thinking is also a prison.