Post by J.Hollick on Oct 17, 2012 6:55:54 GMT -9
The man in the shadow box. That was what he had always been known to me. I passed him everyday on the walk to school. I remember when I was little my mother, my tiny hand clutched in hers, would drag me along past the town centre ignoring my attempt to stop and watch.
I don’t know how old the shadow man was but he had been full-grown when I was little and that was almost two decades ago. But still, I pass him in his shadow box and he moves with all the spry energy of a young man. You can see him sitting at a desk and I imagine him writing letters to loved ones, or perhaps writing a novel, something he committed himself to years ago, some vast and endless feat to take down the very words of the universe, and that is why he has refused to leave his shadow box. One day, his novel complete, he will step back out into the sunlight and re-join the world, blending in and become forgotten until people find his novel sitting on the shelves of bookstores, explaining a world of wonder and a mind of madness.
The shadow box is made of a fuzzy thick white material. You can’t see through it but the lights within cast the shadows of the furniture and the shadow man against it’s walls. In a way he has total privacy, no one can see his face, his skin colour, his hair colour, his features. He is anonymous, whatever unfavourable characteristics he has inherited or learned do not exist for others to judge. But in another way he is completely exposed to the world. They can see his every move, day or night. I often find myself stopping to watch for a few moments on my way home from work. You can never tell exactly what he is doing but you can guess and I suppose that is the mystery for me, the attraction. I have walked the shadow box end to end, side to side hoping for some door that I might wrench open and finally have all my questions answered but there are no doors. Perhaps there is a trap door in the floor, or a hatch in the roof. If only the walls were not so steep and the roof so high, then I would attempt to climb on top and see for myself. Instead I am left with my imaginings.
I just hope that if the day ever comes that the shadow man emerges I am among some of the witnesses. I think of all the questions I would ask and a million ‘why’s’ bounce around my head.
I am watching him now. Night has fallen, the skyscrapers tower over my head and a train rumbles by. I lean against a cement barrier and watch. He is leaning over what I guess to be a desk, scribbling away. The downtown core is almost empty. People trickle in from elsewhere to begin inhabiting the pubs and I should have been home thirty minutes ago. I finish my sandwich, just preparing myself to walk the last block to the train station. As I begin to walk past the shadow box, sucking root beer from a straw and crumpling up my take away bag I hear something behind me; a slight rustling. I toss my take away bag into the public garbage can and turn around. The shadow man has finished writing at the desk and is crouching near the wall. His form rises, and points to the ground. He has never before interacted with the outside world, though hundreds of people have tried. He has slipped a piece of paper beneath the wall and it lies on the pavement, fragile and white against the rough concrete. I look at the shadow man, his black figure against the light. Hesitantly I take a step and stoop down to pick up the paper. It is folded neatly, perfectly in half. I open it and read the words.
Hello.
I don’t know how old the shadow man was but he had been full-grown when I was little and that was almost two decades ago. But still, I pass him in his shadow box and he moves with all the spry energy of a young man. You can see him sitting at a desk and I imagine him writing letters to loved ones, or perhaps writing a novel, something he committed himself to years ago, some vast and endless feat to take down the very words of the universe, and that is why he has refused to leave his shadow box. One day, his novel complete, he will step back out into the sunlight and re-join the world, blending in and become forgotten until people find his novel sitting on the shelves of bookstores, explaining a world of wonder and a mind of madness.
The shadow box is made of a fuzzy thick white material. You can’t see through it but the lights within cast the shadows of the furniture and the shadow man against it’s walls. In a way he has total privacy, no one can see his face, his skin colour, his hair colour, his features. He is anonymous, whatever unfavourable characteristics he has inherited or learned do not exist for others to judge. But in another way he is completely exposed to the world. They can see his every move, day or night. I often find myself stopping to watch for a few moments on my way home from work. You can never tell exactly what he is doing but you can guess and I suppose that is the mystery for me, the attraction. I have walked the shadow box end to end, side to side hoping for some door that I might wrench open and finally have all my questions answered but there are no doors. Perhaps there is a trap door in the floor, or a hatch in the roof. If only the walls were not so steep and the roof so high, then I would attempt to climb on top and see for myself. Instead I am left with my imaginings.
I just hope that if the day ever comes that the shadow man emerges I am among some of the witnesses. I think of all the questions I would ask and a million ‘why’s’ bounce around my head.
I am watching him now. Night has fallen, the skyscrapers tower over my head and a train rumbles by. I lean against a cement barrier and watch. He is leaning over what I guess to be a desk, scribbling away. The downtown core is almost empty. People trickle in from elsewhere to begin inhabiting the pubs and I should have been home thirty minutes ago. I finish my sandwich, just preparing myself to walk the last block to the train station. As I begin to walk past the shadow box, sucking root beer from a straw and crumpling up my take away bag I hear something behind me; a slight rustling. I toss my take away bag into the public garbage can and turn around. The shadow man has finished writing at the desk and is crouching near the wall. His form rises, and points to the ground. He has never before interacted with the outside world, though hundreds of people have tried. He has slipped a piece of paper beneath the wall and it lies on the pavement, fragile and white against the rough concrete. I look at the shadow man, his black figure against the light. Hesitantly I take a step and stoop down to pick up the paper. It is folded neatly, perfectly in half. I open it and read the words.
Hello.
