The Shadow

The world around us glimmers with hope. Each cloud speaks of innumerable alternatives, each word spoken unfolds a cataclysmic fall of events, distinct as colors, bright as the sun.

I remember a day in which our world fell under a great shadow. We put down our forks and knives, and walked to the windows as the darkness came silently. I looked across the lawn to a leafless tree, watching each branch etch the air with a sigh, as a last breath.

At that time, we did not know death. In later years, we would come to know it all too well, but we never did accept it.

With the shadow came the cold, and with the cold came the inexplicably unceasing wind. I took off, on the wing of a bird, to find warmth, but all was frozen.

Our feet could no longer touch the earth, and we carried fire with us always. To this day we are known as the people of light, for we were the ones who took it with us.

Within that shadow, everything changed. Love was a challenge, as calloused hearts grew thicker without an ebb and flow of warmth and light. Many froze to death, not from the cold, but from their own hardness.

We laughed about our clean teeth after awhile, and after more time, forgot about clouds and rain, feathers and snow, pools and blooms. We forgot about sweat and tears, even blood wouldn't run from our icy veins.

The sky spoke tales to us, but in a tongue we could not understand. To escape its uneasy messages, we fled to the caves and watched the flames against the walls. We chewed sticks. Our bodies no longer had heat for food, and life had long passed from the fields and flocks. There was but one day, as even Time herself had abandoned us.

In my dreams, the walls of the cave were no longer made of stone, but something warm and soft and light. I saw things long forgotten, and colors beyond those of the flames, but my words had long departed from my throat, and upon awakening the visions left like smoke.

After one dream, I awoke to find myself no longer chewing a stick, but grasping it familiarly. I found myself dipping into the coals and moving my wrist furiously, scratching ash into the walls, a form of speaking I had not recalled.

Someone glanced away from the flickering flame and read my ashen words. They prophesied, "We will all be changed."