The townspeoples' whispers are true; I have come to fear my own shadow.

No, before you label me as mad, please hear out my reasons. I once loved it as myself - something with my own image, as it were - providing only an outline, but no detail. Obscuring the facts and figures, and leaving the rest to imagination, just as, in my youth, I came to love mystery. The allure of never being quite sure of the truth, and captivating us in its own right.

Now, they mimic my movements, much like a reflection in a mirror that way, though I know that image to be veritably my own. No; when a shadow traces out my movements with its shrouded hands, when it treads my own footsteps with hushed movements - I see a mockery, a taunting, that tries its very best to haunt me as a being that creeps in the gaps between illumination and shrouds itself in darkness.

When I scream, it screams - if only as a vain gaping of the mouth for the sake of taking my image. When I run, we run together, and I find that no matter how hard I try, it is desperate to cling to me; hanging by my side and wearing on my freedom.

Where do they go to sleep when the light of day comes, and when do they break for sustenance? I imagine that the night, no; darkness is their parade, and when that time comes, they are free to sift and blend among their own kind and perform their darkened parodies of our own performances.

I wonder when the curtain will draw. Honestly, I'm can't say I'm quite fond of either of the two.