a chess god from the window

My window is stupidly narrow. Whenever I smoked, the wind would often spurt through; like an arrow through the arrowslit, the wind would blow all the ash in my favorite chrome ashtray onto the clothing pile on my armchair. I know it’s beautiful. A flare of graphite snowflakes, like confetti exclaiming Yay your lungs! But it simply forced me to vacuum more often than I preferred, which is never.

I both love and hate my window. It makes me feel real. I can peer outside, watch strangers walk by, giving me all the entertainment in the world with their unique getup, making me guess left and right where they’re headed, what kinds of books they read, if they call their mother often. I can hear the trees bristle, dance or maybe shudder. When I throw my clothes onto the ground, I can sit in my armchair and heed to the rain as it laments to me. I spend my time stalking what the people in the apartment across the street are doing. I haven’t seen the man on B2 in so long; so is the B2 lady divorced now? And the two children on G5 have grown so much, their painfully blond hair dulling out to much more visually acceptable sepia. D8 moved out months ago and I haven’t seen anything move up there since. He used to be my favorite, always frantically watering his windowsill plant collection that grew nearly exponentially. But, now nothing. Checkmate.

From my window, I can enjoy everything I miss without being exposed to the elephantine sprawl of the outside, where no such thing as a sanctuary exists. That vastness, where I could keep turning my head and turning my head but no wall, no enclosure offers any aid for my safety. Space, space in every direction. Maybe the only place that would suit me is the finest alleyway between two buildings, so fine the walls would press down on my ribs until I could forget there was no roof above to shield me from the terrors.

On the other hand, the window made me feel real. Whenever the wind came through and touched me, I was no longer a god. My hair is swept in every direction, sticking to the balm of my lips and getting caught on the jagged edges of my fingernails. It dissolves all the sense of omnipresence I crave as I watch the tops of heads come and go. I was the smoker on the fifth floor of the old complex on Aspen Street. I was no more than anyone else–much, much less, in fact.

Most of my time is dedicated to that window. What little time I have left is spent on useless things like eating and using the bathroom and taking the trash out when I can’t put up with the stench of it anymore. Even being able to smell makes me angry with myself–unnecessary sensations. I listen to music. I read books. I watch pirated movies. If not, I would have to think about myself, which is perhaps the only thing I hate more than my window.

Author Notes: i'm re-reading no longer human by osamu dazai and he really inspires me to write absolutely unhinged narration

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