overload

They look pretty tiny from up here, those toy like cars zipping up and down Lake Shore Drive. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever witness a crash while I sit dazing out the window. Mostly I look at each car passing the gap between the buildings and wonder about the people inside of them. Are they listening to music? Talking? Is there one person in the car or multiple? Is it two people fighting or are they laughing? Where are they going to? What is it like to be them?

What would it be like to be in a car zipping down the highway right now - heading off on the start of some adventure? What would it be like to not be looking at the sunshine go by from inside of a cubicle wall? I could take a hand glider and jump out the window, navigating the thermals and swishing between the buildings like a bird riding through an urban canyon. I could swoop by windows and peek in. In peeking maybe I'd see some momentary glimpse of an interior life that explains the strangeness I see acted out by people.

Someone explains in the elevator that driving and riding the bus take the same amount of time, 15 minutes. I hear a good reason to not drive in that statement. But he uses it to justify spurning public transit. One day, one more car on the highway and a bit more crap in the air for the sake of 15 minutes of transportation whoopee. I don't understand that. I don't understand the refrigerator full of stomach and teeth rotting soda and the vending machine full of junk food in the break room. The free water goes untouched. Do my coworkers realize that soda pop gives them rancid smelling body odor?

So many actions I witness I don't comprehend. If I could peek in, if I could see something in those inside moments when they think no one watches, maybe then I could see the splinter under the skin which leads to such behavior. Maybe then some magic words would pop out of my mouth and extricate that splinter from the place that it hurts. "There is nothing that you need...you don't have to prove anything...nothing belongs to you so stop worrying about losing it."

A shadow passes over my desk. It looks like the wings of a predatory bird circling down on me. Its just the construction crane next door as it works busily to block my view. Soon a shiny glass and concrete slab structure will be just 30 feet away and when I go to my window I will see my own reflection.

Like a thick, black blanket pulling itself up over the Atlantic, night comes. It will cover us soon under its chilly shield. We kick under the covers with our electric lights and poke holes in the darkness that reach into outer space. Out past the space station, past the garbage ring, past the asteroids and fat planets, they may see our lights. Maybe they'll be impressed by the glimmer and figure we'll make great pets.