The Sunday morning sun shined brightly on the way to the expat flea market. Asia wished we could take a picture of our shadows, which stretched before us like actors standing in the wings waiting for their cue.
“I have my camera,” I said, and off we were.
Do our shadows only mime our movements? Have they lives of their own? Are they manipulative, or do we hold the chains to their shackles?
Let them stand in the twilight of being, and they hold our thoughts like canisters on the cellar shelf. Breathe on them and they step from the silhouettes holding a palette of possibility.