“in spite of its function as a reservoir for human darkness—or perhaps because of this—the shadow is the seat of creativity” – Carl Jung
The Wheelsucker follows close behind. I consider blowing my nose on him but by the time I remove my hand from the bar to plug a nostril he switches over to my left side, then vanishes for a moment when I duck beneath a ridge. I hate that guy – he’s so shifty – always sitting on my wheel, critiquing my every move while pedaling with little effort and not even a trace of effort showing on his dark, blank face. Then like a shift in the wind somehow he’s ahead of me, just out of arm’s reach, blacker and denser than fog in the night. Worst of all at times he resembles me, or maybe I resemble him? Am I sitting on his wheel or vice versa? It’s hard to tell sometimes who the real person is as the light begins to fade and the distance distorts into the shades of gray from which no benefit ever comes.
But when the light is right and the shadow distinct I glimpse his cowardice, his laziness. He loafs along just out of reach with his schemes and plots, his greed for possessions and playthings clearly exposed for all to see. Envy and self involvement rule the distinct margins of his figure as rolls along the contours of the earth in utter disregard for what truly matters – it’s all about him. Through ascent followed by inevitable descent he’s there, I cannot shake him Only the darkness finally extinguishes his pitiful light.
I really don’t know this Wheelsucker shadow of mine. Though we rarely speak, when we do I don’t like what he has to say.