For it being a game of light and shadow, deceit after deceit, the secret conceals within, and prevails. They choose to bring forth to sunlight what must be seen, that which needs to shine to nourish the soul, to avoid the silence. Silence speaks the truth, unpleasant, crude, for the silent ambiance is a valley of death, a tumultuous agora: there is no place to hide away from oneself.
Virtuous in disguise, mastering the masquerade, bestow the elegance of trickery, not bewitchery: the artifice of deception. For it being a game of light and shadow, behold truth in the shadow casted, the lie dances bright, for what is to be seen is to be flaunt with excess, the hidden buried in the deep dark, amongst denial. The Heavens so unreachable for the infamous hypocrite: the chameleonic persona blends, morphed by guilt, shame and wealth. The stealth mastered by the sneak of the serpent, who creeps and hisses ankle-high, awaits, for the vulnerable feet and stings and seizes with deadly poisonous teeth; the trust is now shattered, the crystal we thought transparent is now scattered at our feet, cutting them with bloody wounds.
Just as dim light brings sight to the one blindfolded with a veil of darkness, too much light can blind with brightness. Is it not life a game of light and shadow? For one is to see not directly into the sun, but vow the head for sunlight to shine upon. Are we not so vulnerable? Can we not challenge the heavenly stars, Nature roars against humane domestication: the wild-beast rejoices in freedom, dies if incarcerated. Fear not the world outside then, for the physical planetarium holds the reality shown by sunlight, is there truth beyond lit horizon, through the darkest dark? The real is filtered by the mind, the power of it bends: transforms.
The mind gives birth to the unreal, like a river that flows incessantly, thoughts flourish, the fertile land of utopia. The wild stampedes in realistic marathon, the unreal materializes in lucidity, faithful science is the creed to believe. For reality is handcrafted, malleable beyond one’s knowledge, encapsulated only in time and space. For it that can be thought, but shines not by the light of the stars above, is it real? Is it that we live in a theatrical plot, the light the puppeteer and we the puppets?
The moment we project ourselves to the neighbor as what we are not, from shadow to light, are we not gifted magicians? Are we not performers?