tracing the tracer

With name-brand mittens I clumsily wield a chalk sword with which I begin to trace the outlines of my shadow. Just as I begin to recognize the chalkman on the blacktop, I or the sun shift positions slightly and my dusty outline of me comes out distorted, a confusing creature of was, is, never-been, and may possibly be.

To rectify this sorry state, I have thus brought along a pale pail of paint and my own sun (for one that constantly moves just won’t do.) This paint glows under my artificial sun and if I could just pin me down I would know the who of my someone. So I lie very still once rolled in the paint and stand up to finally glimpse the elusive me. But I stare down in horror at my paint-spattered corpse, for the body on the floor is an I that I am no more. Despite all of this madness, a madder-ness remains: I ask again, “Who am I?” and begin the process over and again.