Windows

I went on a walk. I wasn’t alone. We go through my yard, out into a parking lot, then through the alley. It’s not yet dark but slowly approaching. I feel unsure with the people I’m with. It’s a nervous balance of if I should be myself or if I should put on my mask. But it’s not entirely about them. The road begins to gently slope downwards. The potholes are less frequent. And the house plots become bigger. Much bigger. We’re in the scenic area.

It’s here that we talk about who lives there, and what they do for a living. Occasionally there’s an open window with no curtains. A soft light emanates from within, denoting that there is life there at this moment. I turn away, only sneaking peeks. If I were home I wouldn’t want people staring at me. But the windows are open. If I were home with the window open, I would feel wary. So close the curtains.

There’s a certain beauty to being seen. The good, the bad, the ugly. Unique and mundane, internal and external. What happens when I let them see me? Will every insane thought in my head find a way to be made true? Rushing with ferocity like magic to foretell my will? What a scary thing. Such power. It bubbles up within me, a neverending spout. But the handle gets worn from how it’s turned on and off so abruptly.

What happens when I realize I don’t have that power? That the magic inside me can only manifest in the solidity of my hands, and the intention of my tongue? Not with an irregular twisting this way and that, but gradual turns and shifts, a constant stream. That the window is open, and the reaction is a projection reflection of… Me?