The shadow of my
shadow is not the same as me, nor is it the shadow of you or of any other or
another, but the only one similar to the shadow of your shadow of another or
another. Like someone who says: "It belongs to everyone a little, and to
none too." She roamed through the thoughts of Julius Caesar or Napoleon.
He was also at the side of Bolívar or San Martín. He accompanied the Christians
in their captivity, and followed them to their peak in the Middle Ages. It
still haunts us, like a shadow that is not a shadow. When we spit, the shadow
reveals the sputum on the ground. The shadow of my shadow does the opposite. He
probably laughs, or blasphemes with exhaustion. It slips into the books
accumulated in libraries, or into the memory of computers where centuries go
back in seconds. Try not to get in the way of every man. Let us meditate and weigh
the current concerns, and wait patiently for our mistakes to make us vibrate
with your conscience. Aware of our mistakes, she guides us along the paths we
take in the history of civilization. Our stage culminates with others, changing
their way of thinking day by day. The shadow of my shadow is not the same as
yours or someone else's, but it is part of what is yours and what is mine.
While I laugh, she spits or is sad. Something different can happen with the
shadow of your shadow. But anyway she follows us or leads us by the hand. It
has no shape or shape. It's mine, not yours.