I hold on to shadows--to figments, to glimpses, to quiet memories from a lost summer's day. I live in them, in the fleeting haven wherein lies my love and my solace, a vapor of the past--constant, but never tangible, never real. Yet they are mine--they unlock my chambers and walk through my walls. They are my transient foundation, and the place my heart calls home, for it cannot rest now--not here, not yet.
Yet, is it enough? Can one hold on to figments and memories and make a life out of their faint illumination? Or does the past make one too weak to go on?
Perhaps shadows are traitors, victors of immobility, haters of the possible, lonely fiends who desire our eyes and yearn for our halt, preventing any reality that might replace them.
Ah, this may be true for some, but I am too fond of glimpses to deem it true for all. No, my shadows are kind and giving. They do not only show my tears of loss but tears of joy for love to come. They are full of hope and assurance--an evidence that my dreams were possible once before and they will be possible once again. They are a witness of love once true, and my heart is not alive without their residence.
And so I continue--one foot behind, one foot in front, carrying on with these memoirs I call my friends, walking forward till the day they will be my reality once again.
