Fragments of the Quiet Mind

When the sun stands directly overhead and everything should be clear, why does the world feel most unfamiliar? At noon, shadows don’t disappear—they condense. Curl under benches, nestle beneath feet, cling like quiet facts. We confuse their stillness for absence. But absence, too, has weight. It doesn’t speak, but it hums. I saw a man once try to outrun his shadow. He sprinted down a sunlit boulevard like maybe speed could erase shape. But the shadow held. Didn't chase. Didn’t stretch. Just clung. Like guilt. Or memory. When he stopped, it returned—spilled calmly outward, patient and precise. Noon shadows aren’t dramatic. They’re honest. They don’t try to impress you. They simply say: you exist, and you interrupt the light. The brightest light doesn’t erase us. It outlines us. At noon, clarity sharpens into distance. Shadows don’t touch. Buildings stand apart. Trees withdraw their reach. Each object keeps its own darkness. Aphorism: Light doesn’t always illuminate—it isolates. The ...