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There’s something about the Cheshire Cat that’s always lingered in my mind—not as a character, but as a presence. That grin, suspended in midair like a sliver of moonlight. It's not just playful. It’s unsettling, disarming. A reminder that not everything needs to make sense to leave an impression.
I used to think it was just whimsy, part of the nonsense. But over time, I started seeing myself in that disappearing act. Phases where I’d drift in and out of people’s lives—or maybe they drifted out of mine. Times when clarity blinked in for a second, then vanished like smoke in a room with no windows. And all that remained was a feeling. A trace. A grin.
The more I tried to chase answers, the more absurd the questions became. Direction blurred. Days dissolved into one another. I moved like Alice—confused, stubborn, still pretending to understand the rules. But maybe the trick was to stop trying to decode the map and just pay attention to how the path felt. Sometimes the fog tells you more than the signposts do.
There’s a kind of freedom in fading. Not disappearance. Just... allowing things to run their course without clinging too tightly. People, places, even identities—we outgrow them or they outgrow us. And if you’re not careful, nostalgia turns into a weight you wear on your back.
But I learned that shadows aren’t just the absence of light. Sometimes they’re proof that something was real. Something stood there. Laughed there. Broke there. And in its absence, something else began.
Maybe that’s what the Cheshire Cat was getting at all along. Not everything has to be tangible to matter. Sometimes it’s the echo that teaches you more than the sound.
So I’ve stopped searching for firm answers. I carry the questions instead. Like a traveler who doesn’t care where the train ends, just wants to feel it moving. Some days I vanish. Some days I return. Some days I’m just the grin.
And that’s okay.
Because in the places where I lose myself, I often find something else waiting.
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