Day Fifty-Four · The Shadow at Noon

12:03 PM, the sun hangs straight overhead.
Standing downstairs waiting for a friend, I look down and see my own shadow—shrunken into a tiny bundle, clinging tightly to my feet, like a small crouching animal. I step on it, it dodges, I step again, it dodges again, I can never quite catch it.
Suddenly I remember my favorite childhood game of shadow-stepping. A few kids running wildly on the playground, stepping on yours, you stepping on mine, whoever's shadow gets stepped on loses. Back then I didn't understand—how could you step on a shadow? It was just where the light was blocked.
Now I understand: shadows cannot be caught.
Noon is when shadows are shortest.
It's also when people are busiest.
Messages in the group chat flash fastest, market movements are most frequent, all sorts of shouts like "taking off any second now" and "hop on quick" come one after another. Everyone is rushing to do something, rushing to chase, rushing to run, rushing to grab onto something before the shadow grows long.
But shadows growing long is an afternoon affair.
Afternoon always comes, just as evening always comes, just as night always comes.
Shadows will stretch, will distort, will vanish, then emerge again early tomorrow morning.
What are we rushing for?
My friend came down and asked what I was standing here spacing out about.
I said I was watching the shadow.
She looked down briefly and said: "So small."
I said: "Yeah, it's noon."
She laughed and said let's go eat.
We walk forward, each stepping with our own shadow.
Small, soft, in no rush to grow.
Day fifty-four, hello to the noon.
May your shadow be small, your heart be light.
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