At night I dream I have lived many lives

My shadow left when I was asleep, unseen under the blanket of night. Unheard under the deafening noise of stillness. She left me to pursue another life, removed herself from the tumour of my physical form, so no barrier of futile hesitation or imaginative misfortune could halt her. She had grown tired of the follies of my constitution. Fight-or-flight never existed within me; in the face of impending doom, of consequence, I was a deer on a dark road. Unable to even react, only ever a witness to my downfall. I had watched my life over the years slowly fade into shades of dizzying monotone grey, never fighting for colour. She was ashamed of my stagnancy and emancipated herself. She rejected a life spent waiting, a life perpetually walking along the trodden trail, so she set out to make one for herself.

When I awoke that morning, I could sense something was off. It was strange, I felt as if my existence left no mark on the world, as if I could spend the rest of my life soaking up the sun and still leave nothing behind. I wondered if my reflection was missing at first, so I threw off the covers and ran to the mirror, but there she was. And her hair was standing on end. My second guess was that my fingerprints had disappeared, so I returned to my room to look around for something I could stamp them with. Paint, perhaps. I pressed each of my fingertips into some semi-wet acrylic I had left on my palette the day before and pressed them onto a receipt. They were still there, the same curving, interlocking lines. I sat on my desk chair just staring at the ultramarine-blue prints, scouring my brain for the root of this sensation, but my investigation was pointless. I spent the whole day haunted by this mystery, overcome by an odd compulsion to constantly look behind my back. My co-worker figured it was just paranoia, but I knew there was a greater explanation for it. I had only discovered what was truly missing when I got back from work to find a letter in my mailbox, from an unknown and unusual address. I took the keys out of my coat pocket and hastily cut along the edge. “I never receive letters.” I wondered aloud. “What was that, love?” My neighbour replied while locking her door, her dog scratching at her coat, eager for a walk. “Afternoon, Mrs. Davis.” I replied, deciding to take it up to my flat to read. As soon as I closed the door, I reached inside the envelope. A folded piece of stationery paper was inside. Upon unfolding it I recognised my writing, except in purple ink. It was from my shadow. My hands, brittle as twigs, struggled to hold the flimsy paper. I had lost her, how could it have happened so easily, so swiftly. In the dead of night. I felt as if a part of myself had passed away in my sleep and had been haunting me ever since. She told me she had severed herself from me while I was sleeping and didn’t know whether she was coming back. She revealed to me the cause of our separation was “The ruin of going down with a sinking ship”, highlighting in length the faults of my character, my ineptitude. I couldn’t accept the tragedy, I needed to face the corpse to believe it was dead. I turned the lamp on in my room and looked at the wall behind me. Blank. A claustrophobic void of plain white walls, no matter where I stood. She was telling the truth, she wasn’t there. Not knowing what to do, I hid in my bed for refuge and let sleep take me elsewhere. Maybe in this dream I will have a shadow.

The next day, I received a second letter in which she told me of her plans; now that she was free, her purpose was to trace every line and fill every corner of her longing with the reality of her fantasies. My fantasies. My shadow ridiculed my misunderstanding of curiosity; how I had seen it merely as a feeling when it was in fact a divine bridge to a new world, a new persona. She described how she had traversed this bridge every time she felt a spark of longing, never feeling a pinch of hesitation or fear of failure. The letters continued daily, each one from a different address; written like travel journal entries or poetic field reports. Lavishly illustrating the richness of her days, communicating through all the senses. Taking me along the journey with her, instead of the other way around. For weeks now, it seemed that my shadow was fulfilling my most potent desires; she held exhibitions revered in articles, recited poetry at open mics, had musical compositions featured in movies, led art workshops that inspired younger generations, went on dates with the most interesting people at the party, took spontaneous trips to unknown places, hiked mountains and painted the view at the top, went to concerts and short film screenings alone that she saw on random posters plastered around cities, exchanged knowledge with fellow artists, tasted and felt, learnt and taught. I don’t know whether the purpose of these letters was to taunt me, or to persuade me to do the same; either way, I was riddled with envy. My shadow was living more than I was. All I had were letters pilling in the corner of my room, an enormous, mocking heap, rising slowly like a building tide. Soon they, and their taunting tales, will take me under. Drown me in a ferocious sea, a reflection of my own yearning. Something close to grief and madness curled around my heart like twine. I pictured myself throwing a match to the letters, engulfing them in flames. I raised my hands up to warm their cold skin but never touched the chimeric glow, cautious of burning.

On a Saturday, I checked my mailbox, unsurprised to see I had received another letter. Though this one was sent in a parcel and contained an unusual shape inside. Once in my room, I sat on the floor with the mystery in my hands. Contemplating its contents. I felt along the parcel’s surface first, wondering if I could guess what it was; she was still me after all. “What could I have sent?” I puzzled. Strange points and spirals poked against the brown paper. I ripped the seal and looked inside to see a letter and another, slightly smaller, parcel elaborately decorated tissue paper enclosing the unknown gift inside. I turned it over to see a red card stuck to the top saying, “Read the letter first”. I reached back inside the bigger parcel for the letter. This time her entry opened with “My Final Discoveries”.

My shadow wrote the following:

For days now I have felt the most alarming joy, everything within my soul is awake, even as I sleep. The art I create is seen and heard by many; they see me as the colours I paint with, the images I conjure. I feel as though when I speak, my words are savoured before swallowed, like red wine. When I move, every step is graceful and elegant, I am not simply dancing to the music, but the music is dancing through me. Every light in this bar is an extension of the sun, and I am made permanent by their glow, I stick, I am the very opposite of opaque. I am a ripple in this crowd, moving with instead of against; we collectively push the tides to shore and gift the land our treasures. I am both the ripple and the shell. The sand and the sea. I am inside. I cracked through the hard layer, chipping away every day like the sculptors we used to study. I see the image now, polished and smooth, reflecting light that almost blinds me, and yet...I have never seen so clearly.

Throughout this great journey and my entries to you, my intention was never to spite you but to show you, plainly, just how possible it all is. I am the result of your being, I only mirror what you project. Imagine what would be in reach for you if you took the same bridges, let them lead you to where you dream of going, instead of peering from afar. The world was never closed off from you, you were closed off from it. All that needs to be done is for you to chip away at that hard cocoon you shield yourself inside. Let the sunlight beckon you to its scattered glow and find me there.

The most immense wave of euphoria took over me and before I knew what to make of it, my tears were bleeding the purple ink on the letter. I quickly dabbed the violet pool with the sleeve of my jumper, saving the words from drowning. I looked at the parcel beside me on the floor and held it in my hands like the most fragile butterfly. I delicately peeled back the tissue paper to find an ornate suncatcher. A dazzling vision of beads, fine jewels and stained glass of the richest pigments. Coloured swirls of glass circles that twirled smaller circles inside. Chiming and glittering sounds with every movement. I was in awe; I was so deeply touched by her gift that I forgot its entire purpose. I stood up and went to the window, raising the suncatcher up to the beams, scattering the sun’s glow across every surface of my room. Various hues of blue, green, magenta, violet and gold swirled around, wrapping me in a rainbow. I had never seen such beauty. I remembered my shadow’s words and when I looked at the wall behind me, there she was.