Shadows on the Wall

The fire rages and the timbers fall. Ash and smoke and glowing filaments twist into the sky and disappear. A distant siren wails.

In the yard, my curved shadow stands long upon the ground. Never have I felt such heat, nor such freedom – nor such aching, terrible guilt. I fear I am a sick man.

They say every story has been written and, by that token, every life (for what is a life if not a story) has already been lived. Specific joys, specific tragedies – these change – but the basic arc of any one life, the skeleton beneath it all, is nothing more than a copy of some ancient form. Read the rest of this entry »