As I walk, I look in through the windows of the houses beside me. In the dark, their light appears warm, cozy compared to that of the cold street lamps. Through the foggy windows I see the outlines of lamps and sofas, tables and kitchens. All the accoutrements that come with a home. Somehow, I don’t see any people. I wonder where they are.
I pause at the crosswalk, then refrain from turning down my street. I continue straight through the dark, looking in at the houses looking out at me. I wonder about all the people who have lived in them, at all the scenes, domestic and dramatic, they have been witness to. My tilting steps send me whirling, and I look behind me, just for a moment, just on a whim, and wonder what footsteps have walked this path before, the heaviness, the lightness, the indifference. I rearrange my footsteps into a more regular pattern.
Turning down a side street I begin a circle back to my apartment. These houses are more melancholy, somehow. Or maybe just more mundane? Looking at them, I can see how worn they have become with simple living. One doesn’t need to have a hard life to be worn out. My feet slow as I look in.
I wonder what if I could look in the apartments of my brothers and sisters, my friends. Would I see them prosaically living, fighting over dishes, eating dinner? Would they be like me, weary and dull after a long day of work? Would they be fighting with roommates and lovers? Or would they be like me, fighting with their own self? I stop walking.
With a sigh I begin walking again, not looking in, not looking out, just looking forward.