This is what happens when you stare out of the window, into the dark
In the 90s, when the internet was still a myth in my part of the world, I’d spend summer nights propped up against my window, either reading or staring blankly into space.
There’s something that I always loved about that city, the rectangles of light in the darkness reminding me that a million other people lived their lives in the same space as me, but in completely different worlds.
One window, with translucent white curtains, showed me a father and his son. A pattern of neon stars could be glimpsed on the ceiling, as the father read to his boy from a red picture book.
I’d wonder what their stories were. Sometimes I’d make up my own.
Sometimes, on nights when my parents were fighting especially hard, I’d switch off the lights and wish I could mute their sounds. I’d sit long after they were done, and just stare out, comforted by the darkness as much as by the yellow glow of a thousand men and women playing their lives out for me.
When you stare into it long enough, darkness has shades of its own that are as clear as any light. I was staring at one patch, and imagining a giant tick hovering over the windows, skittering all over them. I was lost in thought, when my eyes wandered over to the father reading to his boy.
The boy was looking straight at me.
I almost fell off my seat, then remembered that my lights were off. I was safely in the dark, and no one could see me watching.
The boy was still looking straight at me. Slowly he shook his head.
I pulled my curtains shut and ran into bed. It was ridiculous of course. He could not see me in the dark.
I grew up, I got a degree, I moved to a new city every five years.
Instead of reading a book by a window, I’d more likely be smoking on the roof now, or hunching over a laptop, the pale light illuminating me in the dark.
But every once in a while, I’d still stare out into the darkness, letting my eyes roam over window after window. They lit up with scenes of families, children playing, meals eaten, TVs reflecting in the faces of couples curled up in couches. The world was full of people who had each other. I was alone.
Once more, it happened to me, this time as I sat on the edge of my roof, legs dangling off into nothingness, my cigarette almost a stub.
My eyes were making shapes in the darkness, when I peeked into a window.
It was a little girl this time. Tucked into bed, her pillows and blanket almost drowning out her tiny face. Her father sat on the edge of her bed, a picture book in his hand- he was lost in his own world, delighting in the book as he acted out pieces of the story.
She was staring straight at me.
I stubbed out my cigarette and flicked the butt off into the air, once again extinguishing any light around me, once again comforted by the dark.
She was still staring at me. Slowly, she shook her head.
I turned away, swinging my legs back onto solid ground. This was all in my head, I told myself. No one could see me in the dark.
The third time it happened, was after the recession of 2008. I’d moved to San Francisco now, far away from my old home town and college.
I was on my roof again, this time, standing on the edge. I didn’t need to look at the shades of darkness any more. They were in me now.
I had failed. Over and over again, I had failed. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity- god knows I’d had enough. It wasn’t for lack of talent- I’d started out with plenty of that. Every failure of mine stemmed from a lack of trying, from an addictive “I’ll start tomorrow”. I’d promised myself I’d improve so many times- and each time, I’d come to expect that I’d break that promise, until even trying seemed useless.
I was a part of the darkness now, and it was all that seemed real to me. The rectangles of lights from all the buildings around me might as well have been the set of a ****** play. They didn’t seem real.
I flicked my lit cigarette butt off the edge of the roof, and watched as it spiraled downward into the darkness, watched as the trail of sparks slowly extinguished.
I put one leg forward, and stood there, ready to take the step. In the building across from me, a father was reading to his child, and I wondered whether maybe I’d get a sign. I watched as he read, acting out the story, waving his hands and dramatically exaggerating his expressions. The child was focused on him and only him, and slowly his eyes were closing. Eventually, the child fell asleep.
Softly, the father placed the book on a bedside table. He bent over and kissed the child on his head, then switched off the light. I stood in the dark, tears streaming down my face, not knowing why, not knowing what I’d hoped for.
The father came to his window, and eerily, mimicked me, lighting a cigarette, and throwing it off the edge, watching as it extinguished in the wind. Then, he was staring blankly into his hands, his face lit by the cell phone as he scrolled endlessly.
Once, he looked up in my direction, squinting as if he saw something, and then just went back to scrolling.
I don’t know why I didn’t kill myself that night, sometimes you just don’t have the answer. All I know is, engulfed in the dark, I turned from the edge and walked away.
Even darkness has its shades, and somehow, though I didn’t see the light, I forced myself to imagine it. I kept telling myself it was going to get better, even when I didn’t believe it.
So here I am now.
I’ve finished reading to my son. His favorite book, Where The Wild Things Are.
Now, I’m standing on the balcony of my apartment, staring out into the city once more. I’m looking out, and I see you.
You, who are in the dark.
You, who think you are invisible.
I see you.
