Drinking My Shadow

Shadows often dance just before the sun goes down. Throughout my life, I've been forced to endure the same on-again-off-again relationship with my shadow that so confounded primitive cave-dwellers, philosophers, and members of rural electrical cooperatives. A fickle tormentor, my shadow knows where I live, when I sleep, and how many joules it takes to rekindle a relationship that was never meant to last beyond dusk in the first place. A fair-weather friend, the shadow that jumps for joy on sunny days leaves me sodden in the rain, alone, and without the sponges and umbrellas that make life tolerable in Britain, or Seattle.

Having recently attained the Age of Enlightenment, I decided to nip the problem in the bud. Using my newly heightened powers of perception, I realized that life had handed me exactly the sort of shadowy lemon that cries out for liquefaction. I decided to make lemonade.

Hours of careful preparation turned to days, then back to hours as the malfunctioning timepiece on my wrist raced and slowed before giving out entirely. Undeterred, I made a few final adjustments to the blender in which I intended to frappe the tyrant, then turned out the lights to wait.

In retrospect, it wasn't the best trap. Shadows come and go, but that doesn't mean they always use the front door. Even those who come in through the bathroom window aren't likely to wander into the kitchen for a snack when someone is snoring in the pantry. Shadows aren't deaf.

Besides, some noses just know a trap when they smell one. Whose nose? The shadow's nose.


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