the ghost of himself

Even shadows can walk, he thought, when he heard footsteps outside the house. He got up and reached the window. A woman was walking away, her black dress wrapping her as the fuzz of a nocturnal bird. He recognized his neighbor´s figure. In the darkness, the grayish trees coexisted with the autumnal decayed green already dead by the chill. The branches were howling in front of the window like delicate forms of ballerinas dancing in a dim light. But they were no more than faceless shapes in the night. And when he approached the candle to the window pane, he could only see the sight of his face reflected in it – an observed man, he thought, imagining that, perhaps, he had found the ghost of himself. And nothing from outside could touch him. He touched the glass, it was warmless and the outline of his face was only a transparent, cold and flat surface, with no bones to support it. Still, he existed. And now, the ghost of a living man was blurring his vision so that he could not see what was happening outside or what the woman was doing. His reflection mixed up with her shadow walking among the trees. And everything blended in indistinct, colorless and nocturnal images. He thought about the way those images overlapped and pictured that he and that woman could be making love in a clearing nearby without him tasting her lips or sensing the smell of her skin. And the ghost of himself could be in that room, staring at him, and at the same time, taking another shape whatever to lie down with that woman. But when he extinguished the candle, the ghost of himself vanished, entered his body, abandoning that irrational act of love.

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