Wayward thoughts - The Morning After
It seemed like I was chasing my shadow this morning. As sunlight nuzzled the nape of my neck, it appeared to crane, to reach out to the beyond. Contemplation became a tea mug, the foot holding a mirror to the face, almost.
Shadows speak a language that is meant to obfuscate. They are like modern paintings where each daub, each speck, each sinew means something.
Like films, they are larger than life; shadows don't merely lengthen, they project.
Like a fine piece of writing, shadows tell stories and yet leave some things unsaid.
Shadows are like the morning after, chasing memories of light.
© Farzana Versey