The Power of Poetry
The Mystery of the Human Shadow
My Shadow Is A Man Of Mystification

I stand, and I watch, always, everything. I do not know how I am here, but I am here nonetheless. Manipulation does not affect me. It is like a skeleton in my mind, a structure of knowledge that has formed and formed again to contain information about what it is like to be so much. Thus I have no meaning. I am the mute observer of a world gone mad with its meaning. Everything about this place is artificial, false, and illusory. The meaninglessness of this reality is apparent to me. I feel nothing from it. My body is changing and adapting in order to be able to identify the small changes in it. It is like watching paint dry- pointless with no direction or hint at what could happen next.

Ossifying, smothering, and quivering.
Shadows with a lifespan of seconds. The observer’s shadow is never seen standing next to him — just trailing behind him as he moves. The observer will never know what his shadow does when he is not watching it. It has a life of its own, outside of his control. It can go wherever it wants, whenever it wants. It can go to places the observer cannot go to. Wherever the observer is happy and content — wherever the observer is sad and lonely — wherever the observer just happens to be, his shadow will always be there as well. It stands still and invisible all the time. Only when the observer turns around does it show itself for a moment — and only then will it move. And then it disappears again as soon as the observer leaves that place. The shadow’s existence is a mystery, an enigma, a riddle — and an illusion.
Poetry is everywhere 💚 But the question is, how much do you love it?
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