Every move we make forward leaves a discontinuous shadow.
To step away from your own past.
We call to it with invisible language.
Echoes bloom our mind fog from a connection back to place.
Our thoughts carry in one direction while our mind fixes in space.
Without trying memories seem ever clear like a snapshot wrinkle out of time.
And then the mirror-self comes snapping back like a strung out slinky on a dime.
Like there was an option not to.
Stuck in repeat till the needle drops.
Thinking any differently is resolved over years, not hours.
We’re closer to who we are then who we were.
Yet always lingering is the tether to an old dimension.
A forget-me-not string of hyperreal realities.
And then we snap to the present like it’s a gift from the past.
All things float down here, even the mind wading through its own terrarium.
With every move forward comes a reflection of as it were, and not it is.
By every account, our own thoughts carry our prelude toward its denouement.
At every step we move under lights we carry a shade that hangs in all corners.
The patchwork makeup of us all depends on we never unravel the threads of our shadow.
(Artwork assisted by AI generated by Midjourney Oct ’22 Image rights belong to me
Prompt used: Moonlit night of a busy city of people with long shadows:: --ar 3:2 --test)