It’s the night, always the night that makes you think.
Sitting by the window and watching the distant twinkling lights of the airport, the silent buzz of traffic on the tarmac that never ceases, the occasional sound of a flight taxing down the runway in the dead of the night, tends to make me feel terribly and strangely lonely yet fuzzily warm all at the same time.
I sit by the window and think of all the stories that take place every day and every hour within its vast yet limited confines. I think of stories of people leaving for destinations far and near, leaving behind many loved ones perhaps, going to places big or small but different from ours, sometimes never to return, of coming back to empty apartments. I think of stories of people who would perhaps be coming home from distant lands to loved ones, the excitement of meeting families and friends, the excitement of discovering a new place, of travelling together.
I sit by the window and think of my story...of how similar or different it would be from those stories out there.
And in the mornings, the aloof yet inviting lights fade and the building merges with others against the grey sky. The stories of people also fade as daily life takes over.