22nd
Light Touch
Waking from an afternoon reverie, it surprises me that we’re not all insane and I take a few minutes to stare out my apartment windows and watch the traffic lights slowly flicker from red to green. In the fading light, everything seems strangely romantic and naive but I am left with a lingering sense of unease.
It suddenly seems inappropriate that we live our lives like this; each day blending into the next, years stretching onwards, highway into desert horizon. I don’t know what brings on this dizziness but I instinctively close my eyes — and am awash with the muggy air preparing to seep into the Pittsburgh night.
Some time later, I am brought back by the gradual sounds of my neighbors preparing dinner. A wok sizzles to the background hum of an indistinct foreign conversation. My roommate has turned the central air on. Feeling older, I count the shadows on my wall before sitting up and bracing myself for everything that lies ahead.
