Who is this person? What is his name? Why does he do the things he does, and those a certain way?
There are times barely noticeable when instead of the shadow, I find myself as the other--the person. Real as blood and guts, real as glass on skin. But despite the reality, the solidity, the binding laws of the known Universe, this shapeless, nameless force pulsing from somewhere within my flesh screams for the push and pull of unreality, of the limitless sky, of the void, of chaos bleak and riotous and infinite.
I am not supposed to be here. I am not supposed to be doing this. I am not supposed to be talking to you. I am not. I am not. I am not.
Eventually, however, I am forced back to being my own shadow: silent, gagged, and tethered to its organic master yet burning long, burning without sound--a cold and ancient fire. And it is this. Every particle of energy orbits this, my sun. What little is left, I leave for getting from one place to another.
Enough. No more. Everything needs to stop.
But the world does not stop. We fight. We dance. And sometimes one blurs into the other that the only thing that really matters is we keep moving. How? Why? What for? It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. You do not matter. Who you know, what you know, how you use what you know and who you know do not matter. Nothing matters. Everything is moot. We keep moving for as long as we can, as much as we can, in whatever way our instincts take us, until we die.
