I write to understand myself. I write to understand awareness. To understand my awareness. To bring awareness to the life I live. To the world I live in. To the community I find myself in. I write in fiction. With no explicit underpinnings to a society that is constantly changing. That is deeply confusing.
I write to make my community think. Think to understand. The underpinnings of darkness, yet to understand the light. I write to bring to light the darkest underpinnings of community.
I watched her every time I walked past 250 Chestnut Street on my way back home. I took the bus to work daily. I walked to the bus stop daily. I watched her daily. She made me look forward to the walk daily.
Every night as I passed her second floor window, I saw her shadow. Her dark shadow, long dark hair, thick dark lips, long dark lashes, staring at a wall. I never knew what laid on the wall, I never wanted to look. Her dark shadow was all I saw. Was all I wanted to see.
As I begin to write for the first time in years, I think about my observations. Observations that never allowed me to write.
“What do I like doing on weekends? What do I like doing in my spare time? Or even what I like doing when I walk down the street?” I like imagining. I imagine a lot. Especially when I walk by open windows or walk around the neighborhood and imagine windows. I’ve always had an obsession with windows. Observing them, really. Observing the private life they live. A stranger, will never be able to live that life, but watching is enough to live. Watching is enough to make me discover a life beyond me — a life that’s not mine.
But what is so mesmerizing beyond me. What is so mesmerizing with a life that’s not mine. Well, that’s the specific thing exactly — my life is mesmerizing when I get to experience a story that’s beyond me — that’s perhaps made up — that perhaps, does not exist. Yet, it makes my life exciting. To think of someone else’s life and obsessively think about it. Observing is more than molding a story, it’s creating. It brings one’s mind to life. It’s thoughtful. It gives birth to creativity. And more importantly, gives birth to life. Building stories is a skill. Creating is a skill. After all, god created the earth and the skies. He built the garden of Eden and observed sin as he created a world founded on morality and mortality — what got me here in the first place.
I watched her. Every time I walked past 250 chestnut street. On my way home.
I took the bus to work. Daily. I walked to the bus stop. Daily. I watched her. Daily. I looked forward to her. Daily.
As I sat on the grass daily, at nights my spirit left her.
Observations were my way of living. My way of coping.