Through the glass window,

 

I saw the street. It was evening, the orange streetlamps glowed, the cobblestone road glistened with moisture. Stripped trees jutted out of their leaves along the curb, the pulsating orange traffic lights reflected bright reflections in the puddles. Through the glass window, I saw people. They walked slowly, deliberately, taking careful steps. They waved their hands, nodded, their faces contorted with grimaces of reluctance, smiles, and surprise. Through the glass window, I saw night. A cold, fog-shrouded, wet, chilled night. She sat on a wooden chair, looking down on the city. She looked at the villages, the dirt roads, the plowed fields. At the frozen lakes, thick as soup, overgrown with reeds. She looked at the mountains rising from the plains, plastered with silence and frozen waiting. Through the glass window, I saw birds. They flew in different directions, often changing direction, as if disoriented. I saw dogs racing ahead with their pink tongues lolling, rushing in slow motion, driven somewhere by some unknown instinct. I saw growing grass, bursting from the bowels of the earth, full of hope for a rendezvous with the sky. Through the glass pane, I saw human thoughts. They lay drunk on the edge of the road, clinging to each other with hundreds of twisted arms, breathing heavily and rapidly. I saw human opinions furiously felling a stately, massive oak tree. Wood shavings flew, swirling around. Through the glass pane, I saw human fears playing hide-and-seek in the yard, and human resentments, like intricately screwed screws into the smooth surface of fragrant iron. Through the glass pane, I saw a baby's cradle, scattered toys, a doll without an ear, a teddy bear hanging upside down with a syringe stuck in its side. I saw boys playing soccer, I saw little girls drawing a Christmas tree. Through the glass pane, I saw the school, the students sitting neatly at their desks, the teacher in a short skirt explaining the causes of World War II. I saw the fear of punishment, I saw the fear of home. Through the glass pane, I saw pain. With a long beard, wire-rimmed glasses, sitting in a wheelchair. I saw his smile, I saw him checking something in a notebook.

Through the glass pane, I saw the distant, greenish lights of distant streetlamps gleaming in the darkness. Lonely ones, standing on some forgotten, bumpy side road. Strange streetlamps, unfamiliar streetlamps, with wet leaves at their bases, heralding houses. I saw a hedgehog crossing the asphalt road in their light. I saw a squirrel deep in sleep. I saw a deer with beautiful black eyes, stepping delicately in the lush, tall grass. Through the glass pane, I saw rain falling. Each drop fell slowly, from the earth to the sky. It was night. A foggy, colorless, cool night. Autumn or spring, I don't remember. I saw a book open on the table, small, black, densely printed pages. A story about a person, a story about suffering, a story about life. I saw a person writing something, about a glass pane, about... I don't know. Unexpected joy, a flash of thought, a beautiful spring, a yellow, fragrant rhododendron. Everything(?) was in order, good, peaceful. Through the glass pane I saw hands. Stroking, embracing, comforting hands. Hands curled into a fist, hard, striking hands. I saw shoes lined up in the hallway. Worn, wrinkled, worn-out. A picture on the wall, small coins on a shelf. Through the glass pane I saw a man who, leaning on a special wheelchair (he was sick), walked with difficulty, very slowly. Something told him to go. Hope was still alive. Through the glass pane I saw faith. It was playing in the sandbox, making cakes, building a castle. I saw a rough stone flying through the air, I saw a prickly, green chestnut falling from a tree, I saw a bud closing. I saw an abandoned, swaying swing in the kindergarten yard, corroded, long-colored ladders, walls with peeling plaster. Rainwater pouring rustling into the well. Through the glass pane, I saw steaming lemon tea, the greenish interior of the café, the brown lacquered tables, the flowers on stands in the corner. I saw a senseless silence, a heavy, awkward pause, the twirling of a pen in my fingers. I saw a crumpled piece of paper, a burned letter, a forgotten poem.

Through the glass pane, I saw families sitting in front of televisions, children playing with toy cars, parents staring at the flickering screen. I saw a sad autumn morning, still dark and sleep still lingering. The glare of a hundred-watt bulb, butter spread on bread. Jaws moving rhythmically, a senseless gaze. Through the glass pane, I saw diseases. They conferred around corners, hands on each other's shoulders. I saw unfulfilled expectations, trampled dreams, hopes torn to shreds. I saw resignation, surrender, a powerful helplessness. When darkness envelops, when one doesn't know where to go, when the last bus has left. I saw silent questions, existing separately, strolling thoughtfully through the park. And wise men sitting on ordinary benches painted green with oil paint, occasionally calling out to them. Through the glass pane, I saw dreams. Floating lightly above the ground, entwining trees, dancing between the branches. Their slender hands, their shiny hair, their enchanting eyes, their sensual lips. Telling stories. Parks with thousands of bright bulbs, everywhere, on the grass peeking out from under the snow, on the tree trunks, on the bark of branches. Paths running in different directions, illuminated clearings, despite the night, despite the darkness. Through the glass pane, I saw feelings. I saw "love," I saw "longing," I saw "suffering." I saw waiting, a terribly long wait, stretched to the limit. And uncertainty. I saw "hatred," I saw "anger," I saw "jealousy." Beautiful-looking, with subtle pastel makeup, smelling mysterious, subdued. And the expressive ones. Exhibitionistically overt, screaming directly, without understatement. Through the glass pane, I saw extinguished love, the charred, smoking remains of a magnificent building. I saw a boy, a girl. I saw divorced old people, their heads nodding, their hair white. A young girl with her face buried in her hands, a boy motionless on the bed, his eyes open, his thoughts mute. I saw spilled coffee, I saw wine dripping from the table. Time slowly marching on. A gardener trimming a hedge. A brick falling from the roof onto the head of a passing child.

Through the glass pane, I saw myself. My face was stone, frozen suddenly, unexpectedly. I looked at myself, looked through myself. I was in the glass pane. Completely real, quite distinct. I stood silently, motionless, full of anxiety. There were two of us. In the midst of the humid night, in the midst of the icy, penetrating wind. At that time—when everyone was asleep, at that time—when there wasn't a single star in the sky, at that time—when the clouds rolled laboriously and silently. At the deserted bus stop, a metal structure with scratched benches, with cigarette butts trampled on the ground, with almost all the glass broken. On the glass pane, closer and closer, I saw glittering drops. They flowed slowly, sometimes merging into larger streams. Tiny raindrops were running down the pane, somewhere in the misty night.

I suddenly heard the ringing of an unanswered telephone. Suddenly, I heard the rustle of a letter being dropped into a mailbox. And something else. the whistle of a distant train.

It was leaving without me.