Where The Shadows Grow

The rain fell in sheets, drumming against the pavement like a heartbeat, relentless and cold. I stood there, eyes closed, letting the water soak through me, feeling it wash over my skin but knowing it would never reach deeper than that. People talk about cleansing like it's something the world can do for you, like a storm can sweep away the filth you've carried for years. But there's no water strong enough to reach the soul—not until you crack open that door yourself.

"The dirt on the outside doesn't matter," a voice once told me, some street philosopher who had more wisdom than years. "It's the dust inside you that's been settling for a lifetime. That's where you need to clean the house."

But how do you clean something you're afraid to touch?

I opened my eyes and looked up at the sky, the storm clouds thick, swirling like they had secrets to hide. Maybe they did. Maybe we all did. The world loves its masks—people, places, things pretending to be one thing when, in truth, they're something else entirely. But every mask slips eventually. And when it does, what's left?

I didn't know if the city had always been like this, or if I had just been blind to it, wrapped up in my own illusion of what life was supposed to be. Maybe the truth was always there, buried under the noise and the distractions, waiting for me to slow down long enough to notice. But noticing hurt. Noticing forced you to see things you spent your whole life running from.

And yet, I couldn't stop. The more I looked, the more I realized how much of what I thought I knew was a lie.

---

Love. The word felt foreign now, like a distant memory of a dream I could barely remember. I used to think love was something you found in another person, something you chased after like a prize, something that made you whole. But the truth? Love wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It didn't complete you. It tore you apart, piece by piece, until all the things you thought you needed—your ego, your pride, your fear—were stripped away, leaving only the rawest version of yourself. The real question wasn't whether you could find love. The question was whether you could survive it.

I learned that the hard way. The city taught me. The streets, the shadows—they whispered truths no one else wanted to hear. "Love isn't about possession," they told me, "it's about surrender. You want it to heal you, but it's going to burn first. And when it's done, you won't be the same."

But maybe that was the point.

---

I watched the people pass by—empty eyes, tired faces, everyone moving in a hurry to nowhere. They called it survival. I called it distraction. We were all running from something, weren't we? Fear, guilt, the weight of our own choices. But no matter how fast we ran, the truth followed. It waited patiently, like a shadow at your heels. The longer you ignored it, the darker it got. And when it finally caught up to you, it wasn't forgiving.

I used to think I could outrun it too. But time, like truth, catches you in the end. It drags you into the deepest part of yourself, forces you to look into that mirror and face everything you tried to hide. That's where the real battle begins—not out here, in the crumbling streets, but in here, where all your demons live.

"People think darkness is their enemy," I whispered to myself, staring into the reflection of the empty street. "But the real enemy is the light they keep avoiding. It's easier to be lost in the dark than to let the truth blind you."

And maybe that's where most of us were—walking blind, trying to pretend we could still see. The irony was that it wasn't the darkness we feared. It was the moment when we'd be forced to see through it.

---

There was something about silence that made the weight heavier, the kind that wrapped around you like a second skin. It filled the spaces between thoughts, lingered after the last word was spoken, and in that silence, you realized how alone you really were.