Walking around the city on winding sidewalks or stopping by the traffic light crossing, you’ll find me as the girl who looks up at building windows, curious of living activities inside and curious of the interiors cushioning their lives. It’s one of the mundane ways of wondering about other people perhaps, observing from afar. Sometimes I look up for the mere excuse to gaze out at an open space.
There’s no day where I don’t stare up at the sky, get a glimpse of passing puffy clouds or the stars at night squealing if I can see Orion’s Belt and the Big Dipper. I would always have problems looking for Cassiopeia, it seems we’ll never meet in this lifetime. Often I find myself wishing I live up on the Penthouse of a building. What marvelous views will I afford to see while taking a breakfast or sipping a glass of wine before bedtime.
It seems it all is a mere excuse methinks; to create a story, to muse a setting for a novel. In my mind, there’s a clear picture of a forlorn woman in her big loose pajama shirt, a wine glass in hand, staring out the blinking lights of the city at midnight. Over the years, this image gets denser and gathers more substance in my head, even though the truth is quite far from it.
If only my neighborhood is as charming as these nooks in Paris, I wouldn’t mind getting lost or tripping over my feet from craning my neck around. And I would spend afternoons on a cafe like Rabbithole in Williamsburg tackling my reading list looking most likely like this girl sitting at a corner of the bar (with my messy hair). I’d probably never leave until they kick me out for the night.