It's late afternoon, I find myself on another long walk through the neighborhood. The sun is about to set, casting long shadows across the mix of old houses and new apartments. Every day, a new route.
As I walk, I notice things. Little fragments of other people's lives that I would have missed before, lost in the whirlwind of my own thoughts and the endless stream of information. A curtain billows out an open window. The scent of freshly cut grass, chocolate cake baking somewhere nearby. A cat pads through a pile of dry leaves, trying to be silent, though the leaves are rustling too much.
Looking into others' lives feel almost voyeuristic, but it fills me with a strange sense of comfort. I hear a girl calling to her father about pancakes getting cold. I see a sweater left hanging on a fence, forgotten. Life is still happening all around us.
I can't help but feel like an observer, watching from the periphery. There's a part of me that longs to step into these scenes, to experience life from another perspective, if only for a day. But I know I can't. I'm separate, disconnected in a way I can't fully explain.
Yet, even with this distance, there's a sense of care for these strangers. I want the best for them, even if I can't have it for myself. It's a bittersweet feeling - I love humanity, despite everything. Despite the knowledge that I can't fully participate in it.
As I walk, even the most unexpected things bring back memories. The smell of fresh paint. The sound of a TV floating from an open window. I miss being part of it all. I miss the connections, the feeling of being present without preoccupation. For now, these walks are my way of attempting to stay tethered to the world. I appear for a brief moment, silently wishing the best for everyone I see, and then I fade back into the background.
Maybe one day I'll bridge this gap, move from observer to participant. Until then, I'll keep walking.