Looking out the window, from inside, is like trying to look through a mirror, behind the image that stubbornly glues itself to…itself. There is no way to distinguish between the atoms, to look beyond what inhibits the eye from really seeing. That day was too warm, and too perfect, to really see clearly. But that day was no day in particular, just a memory reserved for any day like it. These are the days when nothing seems to be right with you, but right with everyone else. The people walking by the window seem to have purpose; they glace at their watches, nod to their companions, speed up to arrive someplace on time, or, better yet, leisurely stroll because they are not in a hurry to get anywhere. But even the idle strollers have purpose; they know where they are headed, in general. But you, standing behind the glass, are stuck, separated by more than just a clear wall; it is a wall of inopportunity. Even if you crack a widow, or lift it as high as it will go, it is not the same as making the decision to open the door, walk outside, and join the procession. Once again, the air outside smells sickly sweet, plump and full of the constant breathing of plants, animals, and humans, the monotonous “in/out, in/out” of every living creature. You even wonder if there is enough air out there for you, too, and think that it is safer to stay inside, where you have all the air to yourself. There is no one there to share it with, no one to tell you what to do, to ask you what you are going to do next.
But, to the contrary, there is someone doing these things. You do not see him or her, and it is not God, if that’s what you’re thinking. It is someone closer to you than God, it is your memories, the people that have passed through the window and touched you for a moment, it is the memory of things yet to pass. It is everything.
