There are innumerable shadows that we bypass, their cloudy emanations simply replicating what we take for granted.

Shadows are melancholic images, composed poetry. They are muted, gentle, mellow. We walk past them daily, sometimes never noticing until the hours--and the shadows--are long.

They've distorted the blades of grass in my backyard ...

... evenly divided the wall of a gift shop in downtown Atlanta. They are next to us, behind us. Near and far, they begin beneath our feet and stretch hundreds, thousands of miles.

Sometimes, it is only the object itself that makes the shadow intriguing--a ghostly reflection of what we may find revolting in luminous sunlight.

At other times, a mundane walk though the cascading light destroys the intricate pattern.

Shadows are abstract, abstruse. We use aesthetic doubling such as "cover of darkness" to describe their potential to be frighteningly obscure.

Shadows blanket objects and paint them with an unrealistic dimness.

Shadows are made from seats ...

... stairs ...

... sunglasses.

These words, a hundred languages I can't read, seem salient, for they are doubled onto the sidewalk in an intricate pattern of numbers, deltas, characters, letters and omegas. They are illuminated by the late-afternoon sun, aglow with a shadowy representation of knowledge and culture.

It's like looking through a fuzzy window, searching for clarity in a fogged mirror. Shadows clog corners, darken days, dampen spirits. They blur vision, frighten us, heighten us. Sometimes we forget that shadows exist only because somewhere--above, around, near, next to--there is a source of light.

And, sometimes, we forget that they are a part of us, too, for they even come in the form of a shadowy past and indistinct memories.


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