WINDOWS
Thick flakes of snow, glowing in the dead of the night, were now melting as soon as they hit the runway, before they could be plowed by airport’s machinery. Eyes of baggage tractors were darting down the taxiway, looking for their designated air vessels to offload suitcases and bags full of personal belongings and emotional baggage of passengers, like lifeboats cautiously crawling across uncharted water mass, searching for the safety of the shore. It was warmer that you would typically expect from the last hours of January, thanks to global warming; however, a heavy snowstorm was a surprise that did manage to mess up a lot of schedules. Flights were delayed, which caused a usual stir with travelers; but at this point everyone calmed down and settled into their premeditated waiting routines — can’t hold a grudge against Mother Nature for too long.
Sitting at the gate across from me was an elderly man. Visibly bored by his book, he started a conversation with me — what seemed to be in attempt not to fall asleep.
Looking my way, he asked, “When there is an excessive amount of snow at the airport, do you know what they do with it?
“No, I actually never thought about it”, I replied, weighing the possibilities.
“Tractors plow the snow and load it into apparatuses called snow-melters, which manually turn the snow into water using flame burners, and then water is dumped on the ground or into a storm drain,” he followed, with a satisfaction on his face of being able to let me in on a secret.
The man looked to be in his seventies, silver fox with a full head of slicked back hair. He was dressed dapper, wearing a wool cardigan under a long dark grey coat, with creased black pants and galoshes, that could easily pass for Chelsea boots — smooth and efficient.
“What is the destination of your travels?” he casually asked, continuing the conversation.
“I’m going to The Virgin Islands, in need of a beach and tropical sun right now,” was my reply, but truthfully I was stressed and exhausted, and needed a break from work. I refrained from elaborating and giving out this information.
“I hope you find what you are looking for there,” he said, nodding in approval.
“What makes you think I’m on a search for something?” I replied, being surprised by the question.
“You remind me of myself when I was young, curious yet afraid to try, scared to take flight, there is a hint of hesitation in your eyes.”
I was intrigued, as I dealt with many of life’s uncertainties, trying to navigate it like a sailing boat lost in the ocean during a storm, the wave was rising and closing in, ready to drop on me at any moment. But I still did not have the answers, so many things I wanted to do, yet the time was limited — so I thought — not knowing where to start and procrastinating, fading and wasting away.
I needed recalibration, time to stop and not think, just be, stop searching for thoughts, forcing them, lay down the welcome mat and let them be invited — simply relax for once. Taking two weeks for myself, first time off in a few years, a much needed break after working overtime. First solo vacation trip: taking a step towards facing a fear, a fear of being alone, social solitude. Putting myself out there, stepping out of my comfort zone, including myself into a situation where I have to socialize with strangers.
“I’ll take it as a compliment!” I replied with a cheeky smile.
“Maybe you shouldn’t.. I would tell you my story, but it could take way too long. I don’t want to bore you.”
“Well, with all this weather and waiting, I think, time is all we have.. I’m all ears.”
“Ok then, young man, where do I begin…”
I lived on the 4th floor of the apartment building situated on a quiet tree-lined street. Little foot traffic, and even less car traffic, helped to keep peace and maintain a low level of noise pollution on this one-way street. Sundays were the busiest, as all the christians of the neighborhood flooded down the street to attend the Baptist Church on the corner. The whole area was lovely and well-groomed, it was called Candy Hill, overlooking adjacent parts from its vantage point, minutes walk to the park with a river view, where you can always catch a few old timers gathered to play chess. They always played as if their lives depended on it, slamming down the pieces until one competitor came out victorious.
From the windows of my bedroom I had a good sight of an empty three-story brownstone across the street. It had been vacant for quite a while and I was unsure why no-one wanted to move in, as it seemed to be in good condition, at least from the outside looking in; as if it was haunted by the previous inhabitants, preventing anybody from setting their foot in.
One Friday, after work, I picked up my dinner from the cart by the train station, and was taking a walk back home. There was smoke all over the neighborhood, impairing vision and breathing — grey clouds were hanging above our heads like never-ending monsoon. Top floor of a building in the area had burned down before firefighters could put down the fire. Foul play was involved, but nobody got hurt — passing by I overheard the details from the conversation of two people who had witnessed the incident earlier, and personally knew the residents of the apartment where the fire started.
Parked by the brownstone I saw a truck with three movers unloading the furniture, carrying it up the stairs, struggling with heavier and bigger pieces, stopping here and there to cough and catch a breath. Someone was finally moving in. I went inside my apartment, ate dinner, read about 50 pages of “Anna Karenina”, and forgot all about it: both the fire and a new neighbor.
Next day I slept in, woke up late around noon, went up to my window to open up the blinds, and glanced over at the brownstone. There, in one of the windows, I saw a woman, possibly in her 40s, in a teal floral dress, unpacking the boxes and placing the china on the shelves of a curio cabinet. She was moving with grace, adding sophistication to performing a chore. Shoulder length curly hair collected by a silk scarf at the top, and the dress keeping her neck and collarbones exposed — she was a marvelous sight. The distance did not allow me to fully make out her facial features, the image was a bit blurry, but I could tell she was an attractive lady.
On the right side of the front entrance door was a wide window to a dining room (where the woman was), directly above it was a set of three windows, two windows of the bedroom and another one of the hallway (above the front door), and the last top story window was round and smaller in scale, hiding the room which I presumed was used as an attic. Paying no mind to it I continued my day.
That same day, before going to sleep, I decided to take another peek at my new neighbor. Discreetly peeping in between two slats of the blind, I was keeping separated with my thumb and index finger, I was observing her in the bedroom getting ready for bed, combing her hair. She went into a bathroom and came back changed into a night gown. I was wondering if she realized how much can be seen, or maybe she was doing it on purpose. But in the end, she drew her curtains and turned off the lights, so I followed suit.
This mysterious woman unexpectedly entered my life the same year astronaut Yuri Gagarin completed his journey around Earth, sent by the Soviet Air Forces, achieving a major milestone as a first human soul to physically venture into the outer space. The first one to see our planet from above, how small it is, how minuscule an individual appears on the galaxy’s scale. The pioneer of space travel did not get to live a long life and died a few years later when he was just in his mid 30s, ironically flying a plane and crashing it, the true pilot, supernatural forces protected him in space, but back on Earth he was still vulnerable.
Over the course of the next few weeks I found myself drawn to the window more and more, trying to see what the lady was up to. It became a ritual. I would watch her every day. After I woke up, and before going to sleep. Sometimes she was there and I would spend a few minutes observing her movements, and other times she wasn’t which made me upset, I would usually give it a moment or two, in hopes to see if she appears. At times I would sneak in a few more glances here and there, depending on my mood, depending how lonely I was feeling. There was a method to my madness. Watching her was giving me a sense of being involved, being part of her household. On weekends, during the day she would read her books or have a friend or two over for lunch. She would offer them snacks and tea, and they would sit and chat at the round dining table. In the evenings she would be mostly out, otherwise you could catch her playing records and dancing in her bedroom, or sitting down relaxing and knitting, which seemed to be a very tranquil time passing.
So I kept it up: watching, observing, surveilling, but never spying. My cause was noble, like a loyal guarding dog I was keeping my watch, looking out for intruders. Granted, the service was altruistic in its intent, but still was something nobody asked for.
After a few months of her residence, I positively determined that the lady was living by herself. The house seemed to be too spacious for just one person, but she did not appear to be alone, as she always had people over.
As more time passed, things started changing little by little. She started having less daylight guests and more overnight visitors. She would go on a date and comeback with another man, invite them over, they would sit at the dining table on the 1st floor, flirtatiously chatting away while replenishing their glasses of wine, maybe have a cigarette, and proceed to the 2nd floor, draw the curtains but keep the lights on most of the time. Glimmers of shadowy figures coiled up, bouncing in the windows, until they would take it to the bed. I was left to my imagination, the love dance they performed…
Old man paused, to clear his throat and take a sip of water. The actions he conducted swiftly and with poise.
It would be curious to see all of the photos ever taken by strangers that you photobombed, with your face awkwardly assuming its position in the background, just minding your own business, being candid, being unaware of your facial expression being captured to go down in history. As well as to get a glimpse of all the times you were observed through the window while indulging in a private act of pleasure. I can easily think of one instance, but a bit of a back story first.
It was a chilly Friday night and I had a date scheduled for 9pm. She was fashionably 10min late. While waiting, wind was caressing my ears, and taxis with passengers rushing to start the weekend were zooming past. I met her by the clock on the tiny island in the middle of a busy intersection of multiple streets. We were going to a rooftop bar for drinks.
She dressed up for the occasion: elegant braids dripping down her back like silk , satin short skirt in mustard and black leather jacket with a low cut blouse — sexy outfit that was not sustainable in a cold of that day’s weather. Couple drinks in, we left the fancy bar, walked the park, made out, and she invited me over for some tea. After submitting the invitation she remarked that I should not expect anything sexual, because nothing was going to happen. To which I replied: “Sure, that’s fine by me”.
She asked me to disregard the mess, as she just moved in and had a 1br apartment all to herself, with huge windows in the living room overlooking the courtyard and a tall apartment building across the street. By the time we got to her place it was already past midnight and multiple windows of the opposite building were lit up, reminding me of the light bugs that provided illumination while we were making out in the park. Her apartment was on the 10th floor, which was an easy spot to peek in if you lived on the floor 15+ of the high-rise across the street. Naturally, she did not have any blinds or curtains to cover her windows, the view was wide open, it felt like being in a fish tank — every gaze was welcome.
She put on Sade and told me to occupy the sectional sofa by the window. The flow of saliva between two mouths commenced. Her lips were very soft, like two plump clouds bouncing off of mine. Meanwhile, she complimented my lips, saying “You have very nice lips for a guy.” She took out one of her breasts and leading me by the back of my neck connected my mouth to its nipple. Soft biting and licking ensued, which gave ignition to moans she was releasing.
She grabbed my hand and put it between her legs, where the private area was already prepped up for me, like a morning dew in a grass field. In that moment I realized she was not wearing any underwear (she later explained, it had been to avoid a panty line being visible through the skirt). Starting with a middle finger, I upgraded to simultaneous insertion of middle and index fingers, with a thumb gliding over her clitoris. Moans got louder, wetness level increased. We were on the chaise part of the sofa (shorter side), she was on her back with a window behind her, I was facing her and the window. She was very loud in her delight, unapologetic, as a motor of an old school sports car, she did not hold back, she was practically screaming. I was loving it, but also a bit afraid that her next-door neighbors might think someone is being murdered.
“I want you so bad right now!” were the last words she spoke before I entered her fully. With her skirt hiked up, we were moving in unison, with her fingers tracing rivers on my back. I came pretty fast, but few minutes later, the gong of erotic subconscious sounded, and we started round 2.
I bet if someone was at their window, in the building on the opposite side of the street, during that time, they had a chance to witness quite a show we put on, that they would have to call for an encore. Fully naked, basking in the warmth of an imaginary round of applause after a lengthy round 2, we took our curtain call graciously, staying on the couch in each other’s arms.
With every new night visitor I found myself becoming jealous. Anger was brewing inside me every time I saw another suitor. Foolishly judging her while she was simply enjoying herself, looking down on her promiscuity, despite still being unable to stop checking up on her. She was a grown woman, she knew what she wanted, and she did not shy away from getting it.
However, I deemed all of those men unworthy of her attention. All I wanted was to replace one of them, even if only once. I was an understudy meticulously learning the ropes and patiently preparing for my role, waiting for just one shot to be able to wow the crowd, and most importantly then one I admired. One chance was all I needed.
Having spent so much time watching this mysterious woman, I started developing feelings for her. I did not know her name. I’d never seen her up close. We’d never exchanged even a single word. Yet I knew my feelings were real, they felt real, and no-one could prove me otherwise. I was becoming obsessed.
According to Oxford English Dictionary, one of the definitions of voyeurism is a pleasure gained from watching the problems and private lives of others.
While according to Cambridge Dictionary, voyeurism is the activity of getting pleasure from secretly watching other people in sexual situations or, more generally, from watching other people’s private lives.
Is voyeurism, in a broader sense, at its peak right now? With the younger generation being in love with seeing other people do stuff, as opposed to doing it yourself. Like watching video game streams online, seeing someone else play the game, instead of picking up the controller yourself. You can never fail if you don’t do it, you can just see other people’s failures being broadcast to the world. But if you never fail, success would not feel as rewarding. Like using cheat codes in a video game and taking away the pleasure of beating it yourself after multiple tries, fair and square.
It’s the same story with watching porn, addiction spawned by the technological advancement, the internet era. You are almost guaranteed to see a gaping asshole on the screen before you get to have your first kiss.
Seasons changed, but my life remained the same in all other aspects. I was the one to develop a routine when it came to daily activities, and follow it religiously — it seemed important. Back then I did not really have friends, at least in the physical sense of having people around. My closest childhood friends moved away and relocated to different parts of the country before we graduated. We still stayed in touch and were as close as the friends could be, but it wasn’t the same. We would only get to see each other in person once or twice a year at most, for just a long weekend or a week’s long vacation. We would have a blast spending time together, but then it would be over, and I would be left again, back with my solitude, alone.
When it came to making new friends I was not as enthusiastic. How do you even make friends when you get older? It’s not as easy as when you are a kid, nonchalantly starting to play together with someone and, before you know it, you’ve been around each other for a few years and are already inseparable. Once school and uni days are over, you are no longer around a crowd of your peers, your social milieu starts depleting. As you get a job and enter the adult world: everyone is older, everyone is bitter, everyone is sad and bored. I only wanted a friendship if it were to happen naturally, by itself through a random chain of events, during a peculiar situation like in films. You can’t just ask a person you don’t even know “Would you be my friend?” — that’s too direct and not normal. I did not want to force it, be persistent, annoying. I guess, that’s not how the world worked, at least for me. Every person I encountered, even if appearing interesting as a potential future-friend at first, turned out to disappoint me in a longer run. All of them had different views, different values; they did not share my vision, did not understand me at all — the same way as I did not understand them. So I had nothing else to do but to choose the best companion, myself.
On the weekends I would always follow the same pattern. Wake up late (to catch up on the missed sleep during the week), get some creative work done, have lunch at home, leave to take a train, go for a walk alongside the park (always taking the same exact path, making the same turns on the same corners: left at the hotel, right by the concert hall, past the tea house and the museum, scenic stretch past the garden, and another right after the school’s campus), stop by the book shop, get coffee and read a book, resume the walk from the shop home, sometimes I would stop by at a cinema to watch a new picture. Like a lonely satellite orbiting the Earth, I was following the same selected trajectory over and over again.
When I walked I would always listen to music by replaying favorite songs in my head, my memory was full of melodies and lyrics — an extensive musical catalog. I was an avid music consumer, still am. Music helped me think, assisted with completing tasks in a more enjoyable way. I played classical music on low when reading, listened to records with vocals when I was drawing, whistled and hummed memorable tunes while cleaning the apartment.
I enjoyed Motown, likes of Soul, R&B, Funk, the obvious suspects were Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Isley Brothers. My favorite song back then was “How Deep Is the Ocean” by The Isley Brothers from their debut album “Shout!”, that record is full of energy. I played it when I was feeling down and it would always put me in a better mood, remove the frown and replace it by a smile on my face. When the song was playing it was impossible not to get up and move your feet. When I needed to clear my head and think, I would put on something instrumental, Thelonious Monk with his wondrous keys, or Hideo Shiraki, jazz drummer with his quintet and their “funky boom” style.
On my walks I also enjoyed people watching, just looking at different faces and builds as you come to face them, wondering about their day and life in general while walking past them. It had never gotten dull — another person was another new story in my mind. Everyone had their worries, which were of a tremendous size and importance to them, and completely ignored and overlooked by the outside world. Grains of cosmic sand fighting their way to the top of the hierarchical sandy dune. Each one is so unique, yet on the surface more of the same than different.
Speaking of creative work that I did on the weekends, it was drawing illustrations for me, expressing my inner self through pencils and markers onto the paper. Giving life to characters and situations on a blank canvas. Experimenting with fonts, stylizing short phrases, designing logotypes. I always kept my creative endeavors a secret, it was too close to heart and personal to tell others about it, to reveal my true nature. If I were to tell them what I truly cared about and how I felt, it would be as giving a part of me away, and I didn’t dare to spread myself too thin. The talents were hidden in the confines of my own room. Despite drawing being my pleasure, I was very strict and would always feel disappointed if I did not deliver creatively, I was my biggest critic and needed to meet my own standards. If on a certain weekend I was not up to it, did not have creative juices flowing and did not end up with a worthy illustration, I would become frustrated and mad at myself, feeling immense guilt that would potentially ruin that day.
For the most part, I was leading the life of a hermit, with not much socializing outside of work. Occasionally, I would have a conversation with someone at the book store or during one of my walks, get a date here and there, but nothing that would truly stand out or captivate my memory. It was a vicious cycle, pristinely maintained and well-operated mechanism, with all the cogs working in perfect unison, which was next to impossible to break, once I was set in my ways. I did not want any intruders, and when invited out for a social gathering by co-workers, I always politely declined or made up an excuse. As I knew I would not enjoy it as much as spending time by myself, I did not want to be disappointed.
Meanwhile she was living her life, which appeared to be carefree, like a pro at life she made it seem easy. She was completely unaware of my inner struggles, my whole existence for that matter. Realizing that was painful for me. My whole life back then could have been minimized by an outside perspective to: go to work, read books, repeat.
One day, for no particular reason, I decided to take action, put fate in my hands, change the course of destiny. I wanted to make my existence known to the femme fatale across the street.
I picked up flowers from the shop right before it closed for the night. It was a gorgeous bouquet of white and light pink tulips tied with a red ribbon at the stems. At home I wrote a note, saying it was a small gift from a secret admirer across the street. Placed the note in an envelope, placed the envelope in between the flowers, left them in the vase on my desk. It was hard to fall asleep that night, many thoughts were racing through my head, I was being unsure about the content of the note, and about this gesture in the first place.
Early in the morning on the next day, before the sun was up, I left the flowers on her door step, and left the rest for the destiny to take care of. I started walking towards the train station, with agonizing doubts and uncertainties still present in my mind. How would she react to finding out that one of her neighbors is admiring her? Would she uncover my secret? Would she start closing her windows more, being more private? Too much was at stake and I was not willing to jeopardize my obsession. Last minute, right before I entered the train station, I turned around and ran back to pick up the note. I made it in time, sun was starting to peek over the horizon, both flowers and the note were still there, without any further hesitation I picked up the envelope, torn it in a few pieces and put it in my pocket. I resumed my initial course and dumped the ripped up remains by the station.
I don’t know whether it’s a sixth sense or just one of the inexplicable coincidences life deals us — like a hand of a king and a five at a blackjack table that leaves you wondering how you should proceed with the game — but it feels as if you can always tell when somebody is watching you. In public transport, you not only need to be careful making eye contact with somebody directly, but also be aware of all the mirrors surrounding you, the reflections that are conjured by windows.
When the train is underground all windows turn into mirrors, darkness of the outside provides a black background, while artificial light creates illumination, allowing the photons (rays of light) coming from you hit the surface of the glass and reflect at the same angle creating a specular reflection. What you see is what you get — varieties of angles for you to spy on the other passengers.
Occasionally, when you catch a wandering eye contact, your initial reflex is to pull back and turn your gaze, because your were discovered and you don’t want to get into a staring competition with a stranger. So you run and regroup, allowing some time for the smoke to settle before the next strike, which you will surely take if the object your eyes happened to fall upon is of interest.
Otherwise, if they are looking the other way, you feel as if you are invading someone’s privacy, sneaking into their property, witnessing their most natural state, clueless about the intruders watching and analyzing every movement of their face, while they are just staring into space.
Awkward moments could be painful unless you learn to cherish them, two beings that end up in an embarrassing social situation making them feel uncomfortable; you can only laugh at that, maybe not in the moment but definitely later on.
Two gates down, we were witnessing triplets that just woke up and were running around making their parents work double. They were in the world of their own, free from the anxieties of adults, full of energy unlike their worn out parents.
I went to work early that morning, I usually preferred to be the first one in the office, so I can take my time starting the work day. I would get a cup of coffee (which I always drank black) from the stand outside and would make it last for half an hour, slowly taking small and measured sips, pacing myself. This gave me a chance to gather my thoughts, my own way of meditation.
I worked at the newspaper, tabloid which covered crime stories, astrology, celebrity gossip and television — everything a simple man’s heart desired. Newspapers were popular back in those days, people could not get enough of them. As a bookkeeper my occupation solely revolved around numbers, endless flow of digits of every shape and size, day in and day out, equations of high stakes, keeping track of the finances without letting anything slip, error was not permitted. I didn’t like it there, daily tasks were too mundane for me, with no room for creativity. It made me sad at times, but I took it in stride, I was lucky enough to have a job, I was grateful for that. Despite being a college graduate it was hard to find a decent job, let alone the one that would allow you to follow your dreams.
The same day, when I got back home from work, flowers were no longer on the porch, and I could not help myself but to rush peering into her windows as soon as I crossed my apartment’s threshold. There they were, on her dining room table, right in the middle, light of the chandelier bouncing off of every petal, illuminating the whole room. Just looking at them I could smell the room, the traces of her perfume still lingering in the air, the aroma of chicken baked with potatoes coming from the open door in the kitchen.
I felt fulfilled, the small mission was accomplished, the battle was won yet the war was still far from over.
I was listening attentively to the story, taking in every word, but I couldn’t help myself noticing that I needed to take five — a bathroom break. Finding the logical pause in the story, I excused myself and went to the restroom.
The older you get the more likely you are to be woken up in the middle of the night by a sudden urge of having to urinate. After the deed is done, in a half-drowsy state, I catch myself looking at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. It feels as if looking at a stranger, I recognize myself but the more I keep looking, staring deep into my eyes or focusing on a specific facial feature, the more alien the person in the mirror seems to me. As a doppelgänger, taking his place on the other side of the screen, completely following my every move, trying to persuade me that he is nothing but a mere reflection.
In a sense, it is primal, when animals see their reflection, in the water for instance, they get scared and become hostile, perceiving this reflection as a threat, especially since it mimics them entirely, and the more defensive and ferocious they get, it responds accordingly.
Impostor in your own skin, the chicken or the egg, where does YOUR reality begin and where does it end, Schrödinger’s cat experiment, how can you learn to trust others when you can’t even trust yourself, the man in the mirror.
I watched the movie “Enemy” directed by Denis Villeneuve at a puzzling time in my life: after quitting my job and moving across the country, renting an airbnb for a month, to self-reflect and heal on the inside. Protagonist of the movie, played by Jake Gyllenhaal, randomly discovers a person who looks exactly like him. He tracks his copy down, they meet and try to replace each other in their daily lives for a bit. Villeneuve does a great job throughout the movie balancing the question whether these two people exist as separate entities or they are both the same, duality of one person. Fear of self, what one is capable of faced with the opportunity to inhabit somebody else’s life, act out a role, the mess one would leave behind. YOU are your biggest ENEMY , unless you have an evil twin somewhere out there. The movie also opened my eyes to how attractive pregnant women are, with a stellar performance by Sarah Gadon, and her baby bump.
Creating traditions was second nature to me. It always happened effortlessly, they were like gravity, keeping me grounded, in touch with reality, humble. After the first time, I continued offering flowers to my muse Urania once a month. As a muse of astronomy she was like Ursa Major constellation for me (Big Dipper to be precise), my point of reference in a daily life, my celestial compass, ground zero marker. With her help I always knew where North was. I decided on leaving the notes out of the picture for good, they would only bring confusion, and I also liked the dense mystery cloud of it all. I would leave a modest bouquet of tulips on her doorstep. I chose tulips because they were a symbol of spring’s birth, blooming of nature, new beginnings and everlasting desire. She was the one on the pedestal for me, and I was paying my respects, making my offering to the goddess Aphrodite, who charmed my heart irrevocably. It filled me with joy each time seeing the bouquet enter the house as an important guest, being placed in the center for everyone to see. It was a lucky charm, a dream catcher, a scarecrow for all her undeserving suitors. She would let it stay in her home, free of charge, for about a week, until the petals would wither and lovely colors would fade, completing its life cycle; and she would mercifully let the flowers rest, with a void left, until it is filled again with a new bouquet that will arrive as scheduled.
I was wondering what feelings this repeated gesture was sparking in her. Was she enjoying receiving them? Was she wondering who keeps on persistently sending her flowers with no requests to follow? Non-transactional one way courtship. Or was she taking pity on my lost soul and did not want to seem rude? What mattered is that she did not seem annoyed, she always brought them inside and displayed them for the world to see, she was not ashamed.
A few years and a few dozens of bouquets down the line, I started doubting my own eyes, my vision was clearly failing me. I was getting older, maturing, becoming more intelligent day by day, learning from my mistakes and straying away from repeating them. Meanwhile, it seemed that the lady was getting only younger, she looked as she could not be older than in her early 30s. Youthfulness was oozing from her smile, lighting up the whole house — marvelous sight on par with the Northern Lights. I could not believe my own eyes, no other way around it, they were failing me. Was that some type of witchcraft? Or was it the level this obsession has gotten me to?
The way attraction works is still unfathomable to me. As with all the world’s information: the more you learn, the more you realize how small your knowledge is.
Sometimes you notice someone, just in passing, and you can’t help but stare at them. The eyes follow the object of desire, nonchalantly. But societally it’s too creepy to stare, so you have to avert your gaze, and just resort to sneaking a quick glance here and there, if you are staying in the same vicinity with the object of attraction. But it still weighs heavy on one’s mind, like you HAVE to keep looking, you MUST see it, see as much of it as possible, fully grasp it, from all the angles, paint a mental picture, engrave it in the memory. To the point of getting anxious if you are going to miss it. Feeling as if your eyes are being physically pulled to the source of interest, an invisible magnet of a great power that you can’t resist. Can we blame our biology for such behavior? Or our paranoia, created from obsessive and compulsive tendencies that we generate in our daily lives?
The bigger question is, what is there even to grasp? Like a guy saving pictures of hot women on his phone or computer, stashing them in the folder, feeling that he MUST do it. He can’t just look at them once and let them go. He has to keep on building his archive, his beauty portfolio, replenishing it, adding to it. Only to never look at them again, never to open saved pictures and take time enjoying them, as you would leisurely strolling down the isles of Louvre, or Hermitage, without rushing, taking in every art piece one by one. Pictures would be there, in the same folder, abandoned, attracting no eyes, but with new ones still being added to the mix.
Some things we do just don’t make any sense.
She usually did not leave her house for more than a couple of days. But that one time, after another ordinary delivery of flowers on my part, the bouquet stayed on her doorstep for five days, and I was beginning to worry. She could have been traveling, or maybe she had a family emergency and had to visit them, or maybe she had gotten sick and was at the hospital, or some accident happened.
To be fair, I did not know much about her, nothing to be truthful. The only things I knew, or I thought I did, were the things that I personally came up with, things I imagined her doing, relations I assumed she had. It seemed as I knew everything about her life — like a single cell being under the scrutiny of the most potent magnifying glass, world’s number one microscope — and nothing at the same time. Duality of being. How accurate was what she presented me with, what she showed through the glass? Was it a fair depiction of herself, or was it just a small and an insignificant portion?
Being a hero to my heroine counterpart, supporting actor to her lead, I had to take action to make sure everything was ok and nothing bad had happened. Heroes can’t hesitate, they do, they accomplish, they break the law, if needed, for the greater good.
The night on the fifth day of the bouquet holding its ground, like a forgotten mail, when the city was already asleep, I was on the move.
Past the alleyway around the corner, I climbed a couple of fences and was standing in her backyard. It was of a moderate size, with one dark green oak tree in the corner and occasional bushes scattered across, vine-covered wall with a patio table and three wicker chairs at its foot by the door. I checked, the door was locked, but the window was not. With a measured movement I slid it open and climbed inside.
Now I was in the part of the house I wasn’t allowed to see, on the dark side of the moon, taking a peak behind the curtain, behind the scenes after witnessing the front for so long. The lights were off but my eyes had already adjusted to the darkness. Carefully taking each step I was trying my best not to make any noise. It didn’t seem there was anyone inside, I was not feeling any human presence whatsoever. Dead silence filled all the nooks and crannies of the house.
The first room I entered, directly from the back yard, was the living room, which lead to the kitchen with a futuristic looking Coldspot icebox, which lead to the dining room with a familiar round dining table in the center of it, that I’d seen way too many times. I felt like Jack in the giant’s castle on the cloud, everything looked way bigger up close, different from how I was used to seeing the kitchen from afar. After examining the first floor I went upstairs, entering the inner chambers of the queen, trespassing, committing a cardinal sin, punishable by nothing short of death.
On the 2nd floor my detective work was resumed, I was snooping around with due diligence, paying attention to every little detail, trying to uncover the mystery behind the disappearance. But everything seemed orderly, there were no signs of a quick departure, nothing hinted to struggle or break-in either, ironically, I was trying to leave no traces as well. Being a pro at investigating helped me notice an odd thing: there were no pictures of her or portraits of her family covering the walls, only a few abstract paintings, the walls beared no personal memories reflected in the form of a human being instilled at one point in time on the flat surface of a photograph, as if she did not exist outside of my bedroom window. On this floor there was an office room, with the typewriter sitting on top of the desk and shelves covered with books, a bathroom, a guest bedroom, and private quarters of the majesty herself, the master bedroom.
Dim shine of the moon’s crescent combined with a glow of a streetlight outside of the brownstone were seeping inside, somewhat illuminating the room. Two big windows were overlooking the street we shared, I could see my bedroom from there. It felt like breaking the 4th wall, crossing imaginary bridge and finding myself on the opposite side looking back, crossing the line between the reality and a dream. Looking out the window I saw my reflection looking back at me, discovering the meaning of “if you stare into the abyss for too long, the abyss stares back at you”: I was making rash decisions, breaking laws. I did not want to come out from this experience a monster.
King size bed worthy of a queen was taking up its own corner, facing the entrance into the bedroom. Next to the bed was a walk-in closet. Huge antique floor mirror was standing on the opposite side of the room with an entrance into the master bathroom right by it. The times I’d seen her dancing in front of that mirror, playing her favorite records, unwinding from her daily troubles, getting her groove on like nobody was watching (except for me). Or maybe she knew that her loyal audience member had taken his usual seat in the opera box , theater binoculars in hand, and she was putting on the show strictly for me, unless there were more like me, which I did not want to believe, since I wanted to be special I refused to acknowledge and subscribe to that theory.
Back to the bedroom, an easy chair with a side table and a rustic floor lamp were in the corner by the window, with an unfinished knitted sweater covering the chair’s back. That was the spot where she did her reading and relaxing, the comfort corner. Open in the middle, a moon phase calendar was lying face down on the table.
My belief system was very limited back then, I did not follow horoscopes, did not subscribe to zodiac sign meanings, Mercury’s position and movement did not bother me one bit. I did not believe anything. I was a self-proclaimed man of science, and all of this was Mickey Mouse foolishness to me. Ever since my grandma, bless her soul, confirmed that Santa Claus wasn’t real, that put an end to magic and miracles for me. Yet with this lady’s appearance in my life I started to doubt my own believes, my perspective was shifting. A vision of the burning bush for my agnostic heart that captivated all of my attention. And I was a trespasser on the sacred ground, the Garden of Eden I was allowed to only observe from afar. Paradise was lost but the war wasn’t over yet, there was still hope.
In life all we can do is try, and have faith in ourselves, we all try.
In the bedroom, I started imagining her winding down, sinking into the chair after a long day of work, gathering her thoughts, looking out the window at pedestrians walking down our street, thinking.
Daydreaming at the night time, in the dusk of her bedroom, visualizing her there next to me going about her usual business, while I was just a fly on the wall or a wallflower, observing every step she takes, her every movement, a watchful guardian angel enamored by its subject, disobeying the code of conduct by turning professional into personal. Invisible raven silently tapping at her window, patiently waiting for a chance to get in, until the window is open allowing me to swoop in and take my rightful spot on top of the bust of Venus de Milo, repeating under my breath that I will stay there forevermore, casting a shadow while hoping I would not succumb to darkness my daring heart summoned.
I was fully distracted, enchanted by her home, lost in my thoughts that I forgot the reason I’d gone there in the first place. Until suddenly I heard a noise of the keys rattling inside the door downstairs. My heart sank.
Jack and the Beanstalk cartoon from 1974 holds a special place in my heart. As a kid you like to rewatch everything way too many times while never getting tired of it. I watched it countless times. It had heart, I loved character development arc of the protagonist, I liked the singing and the magic.
The scene when Jack runs into a mysterious man in the field, the one playing an unusual organ, that music was enchanting, teasing and playful, exciting and a bit eerie, like rubber ducks having a sing off in the bath tub full of foam. Anxiety of a hero that about to set out on the mission, start their journey.
And then the terrifying nightmarish music, with intensity of a thunder, crashing like a lightning strike in the act 3, towards resolution at the end of the cartoon, the final face off between Jack with his rescuee and a witch with the giant. Powerful synths grinding the chess board, every move counts, every step is between life and death. You are inside a night terror, but your fate is in your hands and you’ve come to confront it, take what’s yours, what you deserve. Later in life, somehow, when I heard “Rhinestone Eyes” by Gorillaz, I was reminded of this specific music piece and the whole scene in general. “I’m a scary gargoyle on the tower…”
I was a sick kid and had to be taken to visit doctors very frequently for multitude of reasons. I was scheduled to have my adenoids removed, in my parents’ hope that it would improve my health, as it was recommended by yet another medical professional. Spoiler alert: it did not. But nevertheless, my mom promised me to make up for it by buying me something after. The procedure was not too long or too painful, but still it was very uncomfortable, especially for a child, not something I would have willingly signed up for. After adenoids were successfully removed, we went to the store and she bought me a VHS tape of Jack and the Beanstalk as a reward. That’s how I was introduced to it.
What a timing, somebody was entering the house, this situation belonged in a film or a book, not in real life, but I guess it’s true what they say “Life imitates art”, or vice versa. At that time I was in her bedroom and had to decide quick what to do. As a cowardly supporting character of a motion picture would act, I decided to hide, I did not have a choice, somebody was already inside the house and I had no means of escaping in that moment. Leaving the room would surely alarm whomever was inside the house about the intruder, so I had to get in the closet and stay put. My only saving grace was the size of the closet, it was enormous, like a room of its own, and I took my refuge all the way in the farthest corner, hiding behind the winter coats, hoping there would be no need for her to access this area. The closet door was originally half-way open, and that was how I left it, covering my tracks.
From the questionable safety of the closet I could slightly hear a muffled conversation between two people, faint voices that belonged to a woman and a man. Shortly after I heard footsteps coming from the stairway, they were going upstairs. Giggling while clumsily moving across the second floor, they reached the bedroom, opened the door and flowed inside. What ensued was nothing but a foreplay, a lot of kisses exchanged and clothes taken off and thrown every which way, what I could gather from listening in. You can imagine what followed. It felt soul crushing. Not only I had already committed two criminal offenses of break-in and trespassing, with the best intentions in mind of course, trying to help, but the woman I long admired was about to give herself to another man 20 feet away from me. I was more upset than enraged, and yes, I was jealous, however, I would not hurt a fly.
Nonetheless, my heart was beating very fast, ready to explode out of my chest at any moment. The overall nervousness and paranoia were making me feel that the beating was loud, and only increasing in volume, loud enough to be heard throughout the whole house, that it could give me away at any moment. Unless the tell-tale heart would not be able to take it anymore, it would jump out of my chest, open the door terrifying the lovers in the room, and would run down the stairs, out of the house, and into the night, disappearing past the point of no return.
My mind was scrambled, at that point I could not decide what was worse: for me to listen to them do the deed practically next to me, or for them to just discover me and get it over with, have me arrested and thrown in jail, but at least remove me from that situation once and for all. But it was not a crime film, where I would come out of the hiding and kill them both in a revenge fashion, there was no revenge motif to begin with, she did not owe me anything. So all I could do was to stay put and listen (involuntarily) to them going at it, wait until they finished and would both leave.
I stayed in her closet until the morning. They slept together and he left earlier. I did not shut my eyes as I had to be fully alert, could not risk falling asleep and starting to snore to reveal my position. She took her time while getting ready for work: taking a shower, styling her hair, doing her makeup. In front of that large mirror, like Her Majesty the Queen, on the podium addressing the nation, white glove wave hand, establishing her reign over mere men incapable of nothing but bowing down at her feet. All the proceedings the royal woman needed to take before she could present her beauty to the world.
As expected, the moment I was dreading the most was about to happen, she had to go in the closet to pick an outfit. She opened the door and went in. My heart was pounding. After staying in the closet for so long, it would have been ironic to be discovered right as she was about to leave, right before you are ready to snap out of the nightmare, to finally wake up realizing it was nothing but a dream. Through all the coats I was hiding behind, that were covering my whole body, I could see her feet in the doorway. Slim long toes painted black were pointing right at me, while she was arching her left foot, guided by the nature’s golden ratio, trying to reach something further up. She was going through hangers with outfits right by the closet’s entrance. Luck was on my side. After a few minutes of weighing her options, she pulled out a couple of hangers, stepped out, and closed the door.
Shortly after she left the house, and the front door was locked, I gave it another five and started making a move. After spending so much time immobile in a dark place my legs felt like jell-o, it was hard to move, the way you feel after a long film at a theater, only ten times worse. The light was burning, it took my eyes some time to adjust to natural brightness, so I could keep them fully open. After I gathered myself together, I went down the stairs. As I was about to leave I noticed, on the table in the dining room I saw the flowers, withered yet containing a glimpse of hope, right there where they belonged in the middle, with rays of the morning sun shining like a spotlight on them. I went into the kitchen, opened the window and left the same way I came in, carefully shutting the window behind me. After my peculiar overnight experience I could not bring myself to go to work that day and had to come up with an excuse of feeling sick to explain my absence, which was unlike me, as I’d never missed a work day even when I was sick, my work ethic was through the roof.
At home tragic news were being announced on the radio, Apollo 13 space crew (Houston we have a problem phrase originators) was two days into the mission and the oxygen tank exploded, if they were to continue with the moon landing as intended, everyone would have ended up dead. But not all tragic events lead to doom. In the end, the crew looped around the moon and made it back safe to Earth. Granted, they had to experience poor conditions with the shortage of water and the cabin being colder than a well-digger’s ass, with thoughts of demise racing through their heads, only relying on the glimmers of hope. But like I said, sometimes you need to face the music before you can get to the truth, have your world shaken up a bit, like a snow globe, and when all the flakes settle, you could see it from another angle. This particular mission was called a successful failure, and everything NASA learned from it was applied later on in their space endeavors, implementing extra care and safety.
Ever since the break-in incident, consciously or subconsciously, I decided to slow down on my obsession. Like when you face a life-threatening experience, a life-or-death situation, you want to re-think your way of living, which leads to huge changes in life. I shut down the flower-delivery service — it ran its course. I started spending less time at the window; the rate of daily check ups decreased, reduced to an occasional glance every other day. The break-in disaster put a bad after taste in my mouth, made it feel as if something was ruined, irreparable damage had been done. Yet I still cared.
Despite two of us living across the street from each other for so long, surprisingly enough, I never ran into her outside. The only image I had of her is through two sets of windows, mine and hers, how accurate that depiction was I still was yet to discover. Whether we were close in physical proximity, as once before clothes on hangers were the only hurdle that stood between us, there was still that impenetrable invisible barrier separating us, wall too high to scale, the line I did not dare to cross. I was too afraid of ruining the image of perfection, my daily muse, a secret gem I kept hidden deep inside. Nobody was allowed to know about it, nobody was allowed to see it but myself, pearl inside the shell laying in the calm of the ocean bed. A forbidden fruit too sweet to try, hanging on the tree of life, unreachable, light years away, as the Sun is relative to Earth, it will burn you alive if you get too close. Somehow this one-sided relationship just worked for me.
Old man was telling his story and I was listening, trying to draw parallels between my life and his. We both ran out of water and decided to take a quick break, so I could fetch a couple of bottles from the vending machine for us.
Even I historically was graced with an opportunity to have my own personal run-in with a “stalker”. It was very mild in nature (hence the quotes around the word), but lasted for quite a while, and only felt stalker-ish, as I was not reciprocating the attention given to me.
Based on how annoying and obsessive men can get, you can only imagine how much women have to do with this type of energy, not only by conjuring “creeps” in their social circle, but also being at odds with involuntarily dragging any random man they encounter into their life — all this extra attention practically comes with a package called “being a woman”. All women need to do is exist, guys will do the rest.
When I was in elementary school, we were ordered to sit in pairs in a classroom; all the desks were of the size to fit two kids. Teacher would sit a boy and a girl at each desk, unless she ran out of kids and had to sit the same gender together, which was disastrous for class’ peace if that pair consisted of two boys. Height was also a factor to determine your position in the classroom, granted, the taller you are, the farther from blackboard you will be. I would usually end up in a 2nd or 3rd row during those “short” days, way before I had my growth spurt. Teacher would grant me different partners throughout the year, rearranging the pattern of the classroom at her wish and command.
One of them was a girl with pale skin and even paler hair, white-blonde natural color, like a person that have been through it all. She was slender in stature, with a slightly stooped posture and raised shoulders, as if she was a cat getting into a fighting stance. She was training in taekwondo, and continued doing so for over 10 years, getting her black belt when we were in high school. Appearing fragile and strong at the same time, like a lean marathon runner with a lot of endurance and minimal body weight. She was a tomboy in her mannerisms and had some masculine features, broad swimmer-like shoulders and sharp cheekbones.
After a few weeks of being desk partners, we warmed up to each other and were starting to converse on a friendly level. At home everyone had a corded telephone, mine was rotary, she got my number and would dial my home on a random evening. She would ask for help with homework, as I was considered a smart boy in elementary school, or just talk about whatever bothered her childish mind.
She gave me a card on Valentine’s day in 3rd grade, that was the first time I’ve gotten one, there was a dog on it and some sort of cutesy poem. As she told me later, recapping the early days, it went this way: I was embarrassed in front of the other boys, torn the card up and threw it in the garbage, which made her cry and a teacher had to console her. To be truthful, I do not recall doing any of those slanderous things, and I usually take pride in my memory. It was said either in attempt of sabotage on her part, to birth some guilt and sympathy in me towards her, as according to the story I mistreated her; or she forgot what really happened herself, and her mind dramatized the whole event, layer of exaggeration, that had thickened over the years, of this situation being re-played in her mind, of not getting “I like you too” back from me that day. But I had a crush on another girl, my feelings were pure and I was loyal to them — there was no space in my heart for another.
Right before we started high school, I switched from public to private advanced learning school, and she remained behind. Still calling me here and there, doing the trick every girl does, telling me about some older guy she was into but could never have enough courage to profess her love to.
When we were seniors in high school cellphones had already become ubiquitous, everyone had one, she found out my number from someone and would call me out of the blue. One time she called to wish me happy birthday (still remembering the day), then another time to just invite me out. I did not want to hurt her feelings, so I would politely decline or come up with an excuse not to let myself be dragged into a date. Sometimes I would stop picking up the phone, and she would start calling and texting me from different numbers. I was respectful, but never expressed interest. We were good as acquaintances but bad as lovers, to each is own, I never found her attractive.
That year I started dating my first girlfriend, my high school sweetheart, and I did not have any more room for drama and outsiders, as my first relationship was already complicated and confusing enough. Surprisingly, one day my gf and I were walking down the street and ran into my stalker. Not as a head on collision, in a more subtle way. With my peripheral vision I saw her standing at the bus stop and noticing us as we were walking past on the sidewalk. I kept looking straight without telling my gf anything, and she did not call out to stop us, so we kept on moving.
My stalker hasn’t contacted me since, maybe seeing me with another girl made her give up, or maybe she found that love she was looking for in somebody else and forgot all about me. Like a two-way traffic on a busy street of life, we went our separate ways.
A few years had passed and everything was going in one direction, until it wasn’t, a sudden collision that changed the course irreversibly.
It was a regular Friday morning in early spring that did not promise any surprises. At the train station, I was standing on the platform by the column, in the same spot as always, waiting for the train, to board the same car I would always board, the one that took me close to the exit at the station where I needed to get off — every move was calculated. Paying no mind to people around me, I was probably thinking about the dream that I had the night before, decoding and analyzing it. Until suddenly, I saw a person I was least expecting to see, my neighbor I’d watched for years, just casually strolling past me on the platform and stopping a few feet away. No big announcements or advance notices of sort — it happened just like that.
I could not believe my eyes. There she was, standing in front of me, seeing her in full, live and direct. What made me even more perplexed was the fact that I had not a single doubt in my mind that it was her, the only issue was the person before me could not have been older than early 20s. I’d seen a thing or two that could not be explained, but I’d never heard of no person that was aging backwards. With a liveliness of a college student, she was playing with her hair, wrapping and unwrapping a lock around her slender index finger, readjusting the hair tie.
She had small freckles carefully scattered across her nose and cheeks, like stars in the night’s sky forming familiar and unfamiliar constellations. Her features were as symmetrical as nature could ever produce. Green of her eyes was as vast as the rainforest you can easily get lost in. She was wearing a turtleneck under a sports coat, with a wool skirt covering her long legs. Up close she was pretty tall for a lady, about my height. Big folder in her hands, tightly pressed against her chest, with contents I presumed to be some important documents.
I was stunned and couldn’t move, like I saw Medusa, which I technically did. For every year I aged, it seemed, she aged three years in reverse, since the first time I saw her the day she’d moved into the brownstone. As if she discovered a fountain of youth in the basement of her home and turned it into her private jacuzzi, bathing in it every other day, letting magic waters revitalize all her skin cells, washing the curse of time off of her perfect elastic body. Or she was a witch, as suspected before, she knew the right spell to make herself appear as young or old as she pleased, maybe even transform into other living forms, like animals, I would not rule it out either, all was possible.
Where did all the time go? The years had just escaped me, they fled into the nothingness and disappeared in the vortex of space-time continuum. Compared to her youth and vitality I felt as a feeble old geezer, the one who gave up, laid down my arms.
I could not bring myself to move, despite feeling that something needed to be done, an action had to be taken. The clock was ticking, the train was about to arrive. Mustering all my courage I put all the strength of my will into my legs, starting to take baby steps towards her.
As I approached her, like a shy older man, that’s what I uttered almost stutteringly, “Excuse me, hon, could you please tell me what time it is?” My face was flushed, and I could not come up with anything more meaningful to say, but I needed to hear her voice.
She checked her tiny wristwatch, turned her head in my direction, and with a smile on her face replied, “It’s 7:43am, the train should be here in 2min.”
“Thank you”, I replied, “lovely weather today.”
“Lovely indeed.”
Eyes are truly the window to the soul, all the worries reflected on it’s surface, all the secrets you can uncover peering deep into the iris, the colorful circular mountain ridge of one’s world, with a pupil as a crater in the middle, like a tiny black hole keeping everything around it together, the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end. Our tongues are sinful but the eyes are pure, they tell no lies, you can find all the answers there, get to the bottom of the truth.
Making an eye contact with her, looking into her eyes felt like jumping head first into the pool of unknown, submerging deeper and deeper into an unfamiliar body of water, being pulled in further and further by the whirlpool with no chance of escaping, drowning in those eyes of hers. Hypnotized and mesmerized.
The train arrived at the platform. We boarded the same car and I was sneaking glances at her during the ride.
It got me thinking. What had I done with my life up until that point? Did I just let it slip away, like a rope in a tug-o-war contest, the film of my lifeline kept rolling and my hands weren’t pulling on it, open palms, I let it go. Had I dared to take any risks, start new adventures, experiment with things? Or was I just chasing my own shadow, mundane existence, spinning in one place on the same axis, being too afraid to take a single step out of my comfort zone. As the old Russian saying goes, “One who doesn’t take risks, does not get to drink champagne.”
It was a sobering revelation. Seeing her vitality and youth. Was I a sad old fool? Or was she a witch that was sent to drive me to madness, test my sanity? Perform her voodoo on me, the love spell that made me obsessed.
Darker times, they’re telling boulder heavy lies.
I was the first one to get off the train, shooting her a quick parting glance. At first, I thought for a second if I should stay on the train to follow her, to find out more about her, uncover her secrets, to see where she was headed. But soon I dismissed this ludicrous idea. However, that was the last time I’ve ever seen her.
When I was returning home that day after work the weather drastically changed, it was pouring down rain, as heavy as the ones the jungle sees, as unexpected as snow in June. From the time I boarded the train home and when I got off at my stop, the scenery outside did a complete 180. Our street was flooded and I barely managed to get to safety without being swept away by the current, with my clothes fully drenched and my body freezing. As soon as I opened the entrance door of my building, a black siamese cat ran out and zoomed past me, sprinting across the street and hiding under a porch roof of the brownstone. The cat sat there and, it seemed, was staring me dead in the eyes.
All the lights were off in her house. I was worried about the young girl, how she will make it back home in these conditions. The lights stayed off as I checked a few more times before going to sleep.
Due to a downpour the previous day I did not realize, because I could not see clearly, but the next morning I saw that the house was empty, there was no furniture inside. There was only one logical answer — while I was at work yesterday — she moved. In the same fashion, how she suddenly entered my life, she vanished just the same, with no warnings or goodbyes, no notes left behind to explain her untimely departure.
In my life, personal loss was always followed by a heavy rain. Every time a close family member departed from this world I was perplexed, not knowing how to feel, how to express that feeling in my chest. Inexplicable emotions exploding inside me like fireworks of sorrow, with gloomy colors and bitter after taste. Death (of a relative) is something you can be preparing for, depending on circumstances, but when it happens you are still never ready. Instead the skies weeped, so I did not have to.
People being born and people dying are the most common acts in life that every single person is guaranteed to experience, one way or another. However, plenty of intelligent and not so much people still lost their minds obsessively trying to understand the nature of life and death over the centuries, finding no certain answers to the ultimate questions of humanity.
I was a wreck. I was so used to her being there, she was, in a sense, my safety net. How could I continue without her?
But it was a blessing in disguise. Slowly but surely, it helped me reflect and learn many lessons, that I’m hoping you can take away from my story. I also met my wife shortly after and finally started pursuing something I was passionate about, with her support and encouragement. I started and advertising agency, finally being able to utilize my creativity in a professional environment. It was rough at first, but I put in a lot of hard work until it was up and running autonomously, gathering the team of people I could trust along the way, that shared the same passion and drive I did. Growing up you probably saw a few ads on TV that were created by our agency, as we’d worked with numerous world-renowned names.
After I was fully set in the work aspect, my wife and I traveled the world, visited many countries and learned about their cultures first-hand. I went from being afraid to fly to getting on a new plane every other day without a hint of hesitation. Over the years I’ve broadened my horizons and opened up my perspective on things.
Fully invested into a man’s story I forgot about the time myself. On the intercom it was announced, “Prepare to board the flight #936 to St Thomas, USVI, boarding starts from the back of the plane”.
“That’s my cue.. I guess”, I said to my interlocutor.
“It surely is,” he replied, “just remember this, sometimes you don’t need to make grandiose plans, you can just go with the flow, let yourself be carried by the current of life. But you need to make sure to be present and participate, enjoy every moment, and when the right situation presents itself, don’t fret and cease it. Don’t spend too much time worrying about other’s business, just focus on your own. Sometimes, you just need to open up that window and take a peek outside, instead of persisting to stare at a distorted image, or hiding behind a reflection. Sometimes, it is time, while looking out that wide-open window, to stop and smell the flowers that fate left at your doorstep.”
“Thank you so much, your story was something I needed to hear, there are a lot of lessons to learn from it,” I was saying while getting up from the seat and picking up my bag.
“Bon voyage, young man.”
