The lives of others

There is this strange connection that I have with people. The yearning to know, to meet or to avoid. I am most happy on my own. I could go on for days without meeting a single person or speaking to anyone and I get so used to it that I start enjoying it too much.

What I absolutely strive on and am unconsciously found to be indulging in is wondering about strangers lives. I am fascinated by homes. I love walking by lanes of residences in an almost hypnotised daze. I pass house after house, sometimes they are all part of a society and look the same. But not to me. Each house, each home speaks of the inhabitants.

Inhabitants who could be different from each other but form a closed unit. Couples that nobody knows better once they shut their front door. Things shared that only living together is privileged to.

Sometimes I get a glimpse of the insides and I see a beautiful story. In the nights, the lights at different windows fascinate me. Warm yellow lamps form shadows of mystery, bright white lights that promise to show much but doesn't. I feel happy and move on seeking more stories.

At home I just have to look out and I see different activities in the different apartments in the high rise across. The lights again influence my stories as I see a family at dinner or see a child watching a cartoon show with his mother. And then I look up and watch the night sky with a few scattered clouds and infinite mystery only to relive the same stories that I discovered as a 4 year old.