There is nothing unusual about shadows. They are synonymous with sunlight; dark, two-dimensional splotches duplicating the world about.
What’s unusual about the present circumstance is that there is no sunshine. It’s midnight, moonless and I am stumbling along the laneway, making my way homeward after a boozy session at the local. I sense, rather than see this shadow, just a few paces behind.
I stop to take a leak. I excuse myself to the supposed nearby humanity, explaining the sudden urgency, my ageing prostate, an unavoidable indiscretion. There is no response. I turn to add further explanation to the shadow’s creator, but there is nobody – just a dark shading across the nearby ground. I notice it deftly sidesteps to avoid foot-wetting.
How many pints? I count a couple of thirst quenchers, then two or three, maybe there were four, as we play pool, and I reckon I have one or two ‘roadies’. Not enough to deaden the ever-pressing regrets, but enough to buoy my egotistical front!
I lean against the wall to get a handle on things. I fumble with the tobacco and papers. Finally, I roll and light a functional smoke. I revel in the forbidden hit to the back of my throat, the delicious sensation as the nicotine threads its way down to my toes.
I am here in the laneway, by myself, save for the ‘presence’ – this dark human form nearby. I am drunk and my wallowing, scornful loneliness is threatening to overwhelm me.
At this point, my legs buckle and I fall heavily to the ground, my back still against the wall, my legs akimbo, splaying out into the road, my bum promising a significant bruise in the morning. My brain is working overtime, trying to find a rational explanation for my here and now. Things are foggy.
I throw out a question; seeking reassurance. I am sure I hear feet shuffling in the gravel and some movement within the dark greyness. There, did you hear that? It was a definite throat-clearing gurgle as I turn to gain confirmation from …? I draw on my smoke, there is a discernible arm movement from the shadow.
Nothing makes sense. My mind wanders around the last few months; the drinking, the hangovers, the verbal stoushes, the breakages as dishes and accusations fly. Consuming loneliness following the final, slamming door. My sober apologies unheeded, weightless but weighing a tonne upon my soul. I am sinking into a deep, deep pit, the booze’s braggadocio, my temporary evening prop, gone.
I wake to blinding light, and a familiar, splitting head. I am crying and snivelling as I sit in the dirt. Where to from here? Dark thoughts, eternity posing as a provocative, circling possibility.
The dark shape sits beside me in the laneway. I see and smell wet trousers and some of last night’s dinner, moist and sunk into the dust.
The shadow rises from the gravel, turns silently and walks off down the lane.
*A heartfelt thanks for Carl Jung’s exploration of ‘shadows’.