I feel myself wanting to write so much. To spill out some of the (any of the) millions of tiny tentrils of thought that swim about in my mind all day. But when I go to write every thought glances away ashamed at my own inability to do so.
I don't know if I would have gone with my shadow either. I would choose the still. The girl. The purpose of my own creation. This is perhaps why I will be mourned by all the forgotten.