The watch tower

It is high summer, 10.30 pm it is warm and dark and smooth out.I stand here and I watch, that is what I do, that is my habit. I make up stories about your lives and you, you never suspect them and I wonder how often I am right about you.

Summer nights have this strange, inaudible thrumming about them, as if the earth is panting in exhaustion and we sweat and chase our dreams into sticky slumbers, into candied dreams of lives that were or are to be.

  I feel like, if I sat and watched your darkened windows long enough, my consciousness could leap out and through your windows and into your sleep thinking on small cat like feet. I know that I don’t feel or think like you do, or I think that I don’t, when we meet our kin, they seem like enemies because they are kin, they are us with different faces.

I stand and I watch.

But for what?

People often say when they are up upon a high place, that those they look down upon appear to be like ants, I find this statement far too lofty an idea.

For you are no different to them your just higher up! There is no romance in being one of the unobserved; it is merely happenstance that you are in an omnipotent position.

Granted, I am perhaps a little rankled this evening, it comes with the territory.

   My job is one that no tax man can ever reach out to with his stubby fat cat fingers, and I am only half thankful for that. I know of but do not participate in national insurance, I am a secret society of one and I bellow internally in disgust and outwardly I always exhale cigarette breaths in boredom.

  I haven’t left this room for who knows how long, I do not have signals or signs to tell me when it is over, nobody will come to relieve me, and I’ll simply have to know when I can go.

  I see a street light struggle and flicker out, I hear a small (to me) drunken bellow before the winds up here shred the sound and whip it away, I turn away from the smog stained window and look at the pensive face I see before me.

The End

0 comments about this story Feed