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  • "The sun fell in sharp wedges inside the room. Whatever the light touched became dowered within a fanatical existence. A plate was like a white lake. A knife looked like a dagger of ice." (Virginia Woolf's The Waves)

    They follow me. Mimick my every action. They come in different sizes; a towering giant, a small troll. While I was growing up, my definitions of comfort and safety have always been associated with the presence of light. I avoided dark corners. I tried to run away from the dark figures on the grounds, on the walls, on anything opaque. My life then has always been about escape; my fearful pursuit to get away from darkness into light.

    As morning comes, every shape, every colour becomes upheld by the streaks of sunlight. Dark blotches on the ground reveal themselves to be kaleidoscopic blooms of flowers; the dark chasm in the middle of the field reveals itself to be a clear lake, with sparkles of light dancing upon the blue surfaces of the water; everything is illuminated. And everything was alive; everything was with shadow.

    Then, for the briefest moment, we see the sun in its zenith. When the sun is directly above us at the single minute, the sun turns everything into light. Buildings radiate in all the glory of light; the flowers on the ground are soaked in light; everything was bathed in light and there are no shadows in place. There isn't a need to run, no reason to escape. Everything stands still for that moment; nothing quivers, nothing wavers.
    (I shiver in this static moment)
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