Schatten

You think I’m gone at night. I’m happy for you to think that, but it’s not true. You think all you need to do is turn out the light and I cease to be. That doesn’t make me go, it just means you can’t see me.

You think you’re more real than I, but consider this – I’m still going to be here when you expire.

You sit there on your bench, eating your sandwich – tomato, lettuce and tuna on rye bread, I remember when we made it back in the kitchen, your sad and lonely kitchen - looking down at me. I can see you’re looking at me, but you won’t know which way I’m facing. How could you?

I know what you’re thinking. I’ve been with you your whole life, how could I not? You’re wondering whether I would ever leave you, betray you for another. For this I commend you, for at least it shows you know who is in charge.

It’s not that you’re afraid of losing me so much as what I could tell. Believe me, your secrets are no different to most others. Are they even secrets if everyone does these things? I suppose they are if you treat them as such, if you let them fret you so.

There is the companionship element too. You wake up each morning knowing that I’m going to be there when you rise. My presence reassures you, I can tell. You hate the middle of the day, when I shrink down to almost nothing, taking my respite from the heat.

Your favourite time is the fleeting window at the end of the day, when I reach out from you and touch all manner of things, everything I can get my hands on. I lean up against other people, embrace them in ways you wish you could too. I climb walls, I soar across roads and fields to welcome the moon, while you stand watching, envious of my freedom, my fearlessness. You love walking under street lights, watching me race on ahead, leaning out and showing you the way.

Sometimes, when we’re alone, you’re too ashamed to have me where you can see me. You turn the lamp beside your bed so it sends the light across you rather than from behind. I know it’s not as good for reading, but it means you don’t see me lie across the bed and rest up against the wall opposite.

You think I won’t judge you that way, which is patently ridiculous. I’ll always judge you, see how poorly you measure up to what you could be, gently mock your weaknesses. It’s not spite, it’s just my job.

I lied about being there during the night. Sometimes I stay, sometimes I go. But regardless of what I do during those quiet hours when you lie in troubled slumber, the places I go and the things I see, I always make sure I’m there when you wake up, right there beneath you.

Despite my disdain for your manifold foibles, my frustration at your ceaseless self-abasement, I do have a certain soft-spot as well. We've set off on this journey together and I made a promise to always be here. It's part of the deal; that next time round it will be my turn - I will be fleshed out, given the taste touch tactility you waste on your descent into decay, while you will return to be there for me, as my shadow.