I suspect my shadow has been planning a strike lately.

It’s always a half beat slow, dragging on the concrete ground, like a primary school student being forced to stay after class for extra lessons.
My mom says, that’s because you walk improperly.
I counter her, saying that the soul of the shadow is independent; it’s just temporarily residing under my feet, waiting for the day it earns enough points, then sneaks into the roadside greenery to become a tree when I’m not paying attention.
My mom sneers and scoops a big piece of bitter melon into my bowl: “Eat your food, you talk too much. I think your brain is still soaking in water that hasn’t dried yet.”
Last night at midnight, I went downstairs to the 24-hour convenience store to buy a lighter.
The air conditioning in the store was turned on as if refrigerating Antarctica, and the cashier was a sleepy-eyed young man, with deep-set eye sockets, and a gaze that flickered with a kind of Buddhist serenity that seemed to see through life and death.
I stared at the rice balls on the shelf, neatly arranged as if participating in a parade.
“Is this tuna rice ball made today?” I asked.
He didn’t lift his head: “It was made today, but it already foresees its fate of being heated in the microwave, so it looks a bit melancholy.”
I was stunned for a moment, thinking this guy was kind of interesting, probably as mentally challenged as I am.
I asked him, “If I buy it, can I change its fate?”
He finally looked up at me, with eyes like he was looking at a lost border collie: “You can only change where it spoils, but not its ultimate destiny as a rice ball.”
I thought for a moment and felt he was right.
So I bought an ice cream bar and ate it in the cold wind on the street.
I thought of my grandpa.
He used to love carrying a roll of fine cotton thread in his pocket, saying he’d use it to tie up clouds.
“Grandson, do you see that cloud that looks like a roast chicken?” he pointed at the white mass in the sky.
I looked up, my neck already sore: “Yes, but it has no taste.”
He chuckled and took out a plastic bag from his pocket, performing a magic trick to pull out a flattened piece of steamed cake.
“Eat it, that’s what the cloud tastes like when it falls down.”
Grandpa couldn’t get used to living in the city; he said the city’s sky was too low, clouds moved too fast, and the cotton thread couldn’t keep up.
Later, he returned to his hometown, and before leaving, gave me a broken alarm clock.
He said, “This clock doesn’t work anymore, but it’s accurate at least twice a day. Compared to those that run all the time but are never accurate, it has more dignity.”
I’ve kept that alarm clock all along.
Now it’s 2:30 a.m.
I stand under the streetlamp, watching my shadow.
It moved slightly, as if adjusting its stance, then both of us stared at the cigarette butts on the ground.
“Are you tired?” I asked my shadow.
My shadow ignored me; it just stayed there peacefully, unmoving.
It’s real, I am fake.