The Window

The Window

Thomas Edgemon


The window overlooked a major highway. It seemed eternally busy. At night, cars were nothing but bright lights and silhouettes, zooming from this place to that. People constantly moving, never content with where they are, always searching for something else.

I spent much time looking through that window, searching for something within myself. Searching for something that possibly wasn't there.

I walked by the large window, refusing to acknowledge its presence, and sat down on the couch with my back to it. Though I could not see it, I could feel it. It spoke to me, gently whispered my name in the calm darkness. The window offered no solutions, only a temporary escape from my search for them.

The room was dark and still. Sparsely furnished, it offered nothing and hid nothing. There was a cold, simple truth about it.

Before long, I grew tired of sitting there. It seemed to be silent even on a molecular level; this silence got in my head and grew exponentially until I could bear it no longer. So I got up, stepped out the door, locked it, and walked away.

I do not remember where I walked, nor do I think it mattered. I just walked. Through alleys, along sidewalks, around cars. Thought it was late, there was a multitude of people. Not that I ever wondered why they call it the city that never sleeps. It was really no different from during the day. Time Square lit up the surrounding area so brightly it made headlights and streetlights superfluous. I grew a sudden urge to sit down; I found a partially unoccupied bench (which were relatively hard to come by.) I always thought it interesting how sitting down imperceptibly altered my perception. The transit of my body through the orchestra of movement no longer factored into the equation. Things slowed down, gained clarity, had more depth. People ceased to be fleeting, ambiguous things and grew faces, emotions, idiosyncrasies. This was my preferred frame of reference.

It was some time before I was cognizant of the person sitting next to me. Attempting to get some glimpse of them, I pretendingly fixed my gaze beyond them so as not to seem intrusive.

He was an elderly man, nondescript save for the expression on his face. It was one of awe, amazement. He looked around as a newborn does when it first greets the world and all of its wonder and peculiarities.

I looked around searching for this thing that might invoke such an expression. I could find nothing out of the ordinary. And then I smiled, coming to a silent, contenting realization.