Sitting on the windowsill of a fourteenth floor apartment, hearing the sound of tired cars and tired souls beneath me, I notice the people below aren’t yet so distant that they look like ants to my eye. From here, I can still see a distorted aerial view of their figures. I can see what they’re wearing, if they’re hurried or if they appear to have no place in the world they need to be. But for all this, they’re still small enough to be vague and insignificant.
Sometimes I romanticize them; based on everything I’m observing, I try to fathom their stories. Maybe I imagine that I’ll meet one of them some day soon. They’ll be that person we’ve all been conditioned to wait for, the one that will change me. They’ll alter the entire course of my life and I won’t be stuck sitting on a fourteenth floor apartment’s windowsill in the early morning.
Or instead I imagine myself leaning forward, only slightly, but enough to fall. And in this way, I’d be the one making an impact on not just the concrete, but their lives. While I can’t speak from experience, I imagine that witnessing a person expire so violently might do more to a commuter than just put them off their egg and bacon roll.
Alas, in all of my affinity for the imagination, it has rendered me an uncanny ability to play any role but the active. So instead of getting in the elevator and going down fourteen floors and possibly meeting one of those distant, not-quite-ants people, instead of making an omelet of my insides before a handful of the city’s most monotonous early birds, I think I’ll go to bed. It’s 7am and the sunlight feels as though it’s staining my eyes.