Disclaimer: I disclaim all characters, none of them 're mine in any way.
A/N: Thoughts on Jess' reasons to write. Ficlet.
Boxing Shadows
His whole life, he's living with shadows. They're not the 'mystical creatures of night' some loser poet described, they're simply people. Simple people. Shadows of people. People who lack density.
Sometimes, he's asking himself, how does one turn into a shadow of a person? And are we born shadows trying to be people, or are we born real people and degrade into shadows afterwards?
He's known two people in his life, he thinks. There is one who makes the best coffee on the East Coast. And one who's drank more of it than anyone on the East Coast. He dumped both of them.
He failed to be his friend. He failed to be her knight.
People are so much harder to lose than shadows.
...
Those two people, he can't box, he thinks. Never could.
Boxing shadows is okay. It's pointless, but it's okay. Boxing people ricochets. It hurts too much. So he had to quit while he still got the strength to. Not courage. Courage he never had, but strength, he had some. It drained out easily, though. So he had to make it quick. Be gone. Be lost. End of story.
However, there is that thing - such stories never end. At least in his head, they don't.
He keeps replaying those things in his head, over and over again, until he's stuck between what's been and what couldn't be. And somewhere in between, there's what could have been... and it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
Every day, he feels more and more like a shadow. He imagines how he gradually dissolves into thin air.
He thinks he has to find something of substance. Something to keep his integrity, keep him real. He takes an old half-used notebook and a pencil and starts to write.
...
Anything that crosses his mind. Anything that happens. Or doesn't happen. Anything.
And it's all there. It's a whole bunch of nonsense, he believes. Fragments of thoughts, segments of events. Blurred visions. Crippled ideas. But, somehow, this crap helps him feel better. More real. And it also makes him feel unfinished. But this time, he wants to search for what he's missed.
And, day by day, he's not afraid he'll disappear. As long as the words are there, he knows there's more. Words stick around longer than people, he thinks. But he knows this is not true. Words stick around longer than shadows. Anything sticks around longer than shadows. People stick around forever, because they leave a mark. They change you by simply existing. And sooner or later, they recycle into your life, one way or another.
And, more and more, he feels less like boxing his own shadow.
...
Sun is somewhere to his left. He's walking with his shadow to his right. And he's trying to not fight with it so much. A boy (man?) and his shadow beside him.
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