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Annie111
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Things go well. And yet, when the moon is high at night, and I’m alone, I stare straight up the length of Manhattan. My bedroom window is high, and faces north. I can see the Empire State Building and the Brooklyn Bridge, I can see the Manhattan Bridge, the Williamsburg Bridge. I see some far bridge in the distance that looks like the Tappan Zee, but I tell myself it can’t be. Every night I stare in this northerly direction and I know somewhere on that horizon is where you are. And then I get terrified, because I know soon, you won’t be. You’ll be west, and I can’t see west out my window. Kris, I honestly get so scared that I feel like I’m going to die. Imagine standing at a black window, with hours to go before the light rises, and feeling the full weight of loneliness crush you from above. Clutch your insides as you inevitably gasp, your mind a web of strings that has grown deeper and faster as each year you are alive falls behind you like papers. And then, as you stare at the white of the ceiling, trying to hold onto a memory of happiness, realize that there is no answer, and there never was.
Then wake up in the morning, and let light and caffeine wash it all away. Nighttime, like a movie, is put on rewind, ready to replay its anguish as the documentary of the day unfolds.
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031117
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