The Light in the Windows


I have this thing about windows.  As we go round here, look: there’s lit windows.  And they say to you… just listen to them.  I don’t know in words; they have… they want to tell you stories.  But they can’t.
The lit ones have stories; there’s one behind each pane.  These aren’t places that I belong.  I’m out here in the dark, and that’s how it should be.  It’s a moth-to-a-flame thing.
I don’t know what else to say.  I don’t know what else there is.
The dark windows have stories, but it’s different.  They’re windows through.  There are things behind them, but they’re different.  They reflect other things.  Reflect them wrong.  Or right, and I see them wrong.
People don’t look; or they look, but they don’t see.  They’re just glass.  They’re all different.  The dark ones higher up can be different.  You’re less significant to them.  The ground-floor ones are more… immediate.  More dangerous.
That big tower could be offices or houses.  It radiated something.  I just don’t know what.  I know what it feels like.  It’s eighteen things at once.  It’s disjointed, confusing, frightening, familiar, and in a way comforting.  And it’s old.
I can see younger versions of me.  Not in the windows: I’ve drifted.
It’s persistent; constant.  It’s all the time.  Underneath everything.  It’s where my neuroses come from; my fears.  My happy places feel washed out.  Places are smoke; reflections in a pane of glass.
I can see myself.  I must be about fourteen.  And it’sthe real me; the one who should have been.  I’m walking along a track; a dirt road beside the Swiss Lake.  It must be summer; it’s late afternoon or evening.  The light is golden.  I can see myself walking; standing… and nothing happens.  It’s not what happens; it’s how I feel.  I remember it, but I was never that person.  But still, I remember.
There’re lots of these little freeze-frames.  The feeling is always there, at those times.  It feels all those things: dark, and scary, and familiar all at the same time.  I can feel it at the moment; it’s strong at dusk.  There’s still light in the sky, and the glass reflects it.  The street lights are only a low ceiling; a layer that keeps off the gathering dark above.
But the streetlights do their own thing: they create shadows where daylight wouldn’t.
And I don’t know if it’s really the light in the windows, or the darkness I’m looking at it from.
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