A Place That Doesn’t Know Me

I caught myself imagining another city today.

I don’t know why it is always a city.

Maybe because cities are full of strangers.

There is comfort in that.

I imagined a small apartment somewhere several floors above the street.

Nothing luxurious.

A desk near the window.

A lamp with warm light.

Rain outside.

A neighborhood where nobody has ever heard my name.

In the morning, I would walk somewhere for coffee.

The person behind the counter would only know what I order.

My neighbors would know which door is mine.

Friends I met there would know the person standing in front of them, not every version that came before.

There is something about that thought that makes my shoulders feel lighter.

I don’t want to erase my life.

I don’t even think I want to become someone else.

I just want to know what I am like when no one is expecting me to be anyone in particular.

Maybe I would still be quiet.

Maybe I would still sit beside windows when it rains.

Maybe I would still look at the moon longer than most people do.

But perhaps I would stop wondering whether those things need to be explained.

And perhaps, eventually, someone would sit beside me.

Not asking why the night matters so much.

Just staying long enough to see it too.