Shadows were natural and yet helped disguise nature. For he found it easy to soak in his shadow than to glance at the real self. He looked for his shadows every where. The streets, the world he left behind as he walked, the darkness, the scanty light in the darkness.
He would fidget with the strand of hair waving at the top of his head in his shadow, and not look into the mirror. The hair looked softer, his structure felt more wavy, more flexible, he liked the his arms spread, his figure diminishing and rising, diminishing and rising, dying, diminishing and rising. He could mend it, the dark of his image, his beauty relied on how good he walked, how freely he jumped, how beautifully he looked at others. And this would all make up for a great dance, for beauty, for happiness not sought after. Because shadows never cried. Shadows never looked ugly.


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