Endless_Harmonies
୨⎯ "Thoughts" ⎯୧
Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.
Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.
All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒔
୨⎯ "Thoughts" ⎯୧
Where does the shadow go when you sleep?
Where does the shadow go when you sleep?
Does it curl like smoke in the corners of the room,
waiting for the sun’s first twitch to crawl back into form?
Does it pace the floorboards while your body lies still,
counting breaths like sins,
mouthing secrets you’ve long since buried beneath your ribs?
Does it seep into the hollow chambers of your skull,
to mingle with the clutter—
half-formed regrets,
the murmur of old arguments,
the unfinished thoughts that chew the edges of dreams?
Or does it slink into darker caverns,
to embrace the demons you dare not name?
Those patient beasts who gnaw with velvet teeth,
whose eyes are mirrors,
whose laughter sounds exactly like your own.
What even is a shadow?
A loyal parasite? A silhouette of guilt?
Is it the echo of every choice you never made,
the shape of shame traced in twilight?
Perhaps it is not a thing of darkness,
but of light—
that cruel, exposing light
which dares to define you,
frame you,
remind you
that you are never whole.
Is it not strange—
how it clings to your heels in daylight,
but vanishes into walls when the night falls?
As if it, too, is afraid of true darkness—
or perhaps it becomes it.
Is a shadow a conscience?
A witness?
Or the silhouette of a soul
slowly detaching from the body
like frost from glass?
Likewise, it doesn’t sleep when you do.
It waits.
It watches the rise and fall of your chest,
tender as a predator.
And in the fragile hours before dawn,
it whispers in your ear:
"You are never alone."
Not in light.
Not in dark.
Not even in dreams.
The shadow is not cast.
It remains.
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