O glaube:
Du wardst nicht umsonst geboren!
Hast nicht umsonst gelebt, gelitten!

You got it.

To me it sounded a bit gay.

Your bloody Bukowski got this, you grunted. He wasn’t a bit gay.

Bit long, isn’t it? I know you like taking your time over a Number Two, but this is taking the piss…

It’s got everything your wanky beat novelists bang on about, you insisted, then suffered this fool gladly by explaining why. The search for the meaning, forgotten pleasures, light and shadows, the greatest suffering of man, something about andante, were we talking about pasta now? … I never did pay much attention to your pop-up, split-second messaging, so I’ll never know for sure what you were on about.

But I remember the bit about shadows. You didn’t say light and shade. That I’d have forgotten. You said shadows.

So basically your shadow is with you whenever you see the light, is what I said, fishing for clever. The opposite of what Neil Young said about the setting sun, yeah?

Dick, you said, and we left it at that.

Yesterday I was at a festival and I did not like the music. But the need to dance crept up on me and I found myself borrowing sounds from the wind, the shuffle of bodies and the wheels of the security truck to create my own imaginary instruments to add to the cacophony, making my body move in a way that made me look all alone.

Only I had my shadows with me. Plural. For a second or so the light hit me in a way that left me with two shadows. The umbras and penumbras they’re called. It sounds right up there with your andante and allegro, but it terrified me. One, a lifelong comforting friend, but the second appeared uninvited, creeping and lurking. Has it always walked with me unseen?

It danced at my feet, in harmony with my familiar contour, but was gone before I could accept it.

I think I get it now.

Come back.

For Rob Bell (23 Dec 1975-29 May 2015) By Shihab S Joi
Gustav Mahler

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