Little Lives

I like looking at houses from the outside in.

I like seeing the small lights on in the windows.

I like noticing movement inside, in the kitchen, in the living rooms.

I like driving down roads and imagining I live there.

I like thinking about the chain restaurants families are going to on Friday nights.

I like imagining trick or treat.

I like seeing back yards and front yards and open garages and little flags and outdoor statues and mailbox decorations.

I like passing the movie theater and the post office.

I like knowing that people are living lives that are small and comfortable and cozy and uncomplicated and quiet.

I like that that is an option.

I forget that I am on the inside, sometimes, and I am the one leaving the light on or moving around in the kitchen.

I like to remember that I am one of those people.

I like to make myself think of me like that.

It makes every big thing I want seem too big.

It makes every small thing I do feel not so small.

It makes me think that someone might be looking inside, watching, liking all the little things about my life.

I like thinking that someone is watching.

I like remembering that someone probably is not.

I like knowing it doesn’t matter.

But I like, even more, deciding that it really, really does.

I like looking, seeing, noticing, driving, thinking, imagining, seeing, passing, knowing.

I forget.

I remember.

I decide.

I live inside. More inside than I even know. And so does everyone else.

And on we all drive.