Observations

Watching is an art and a science

I have too many secrets. And that's something no one else knows. I don't like to talk about it. I don't like to talk much at all. I like to watch. Last night, I stood on the corner of Braid street and Fifth and watched as the cops arrested another homeless junkie. She cried, but I did not. She cursed, but I don't know why.

Sometimes I watch people kissing in the park. I like to imagine it's dark, and they are the only ones there... Except for me. I watch them and wonder what kissing is like, and I don't think I would care for it. I don't think I would care for it much at all.

One time I watched a kitten die. It had fallen in a hole in the Ice, and couldn't get out. It cried, but I did not. It screamed, but I don't know why. Then it was silent, and still, and I felt a kinship with it, felt sorry for it, felt happy for it.

I watch people walking in the mall, talking on their phones in the hot parking lots, buying and selling drugs in the apartments and on the corners, doing nothing at all in the evening in their living rooms before they pull the curtains closed.

I don't talk about these things. People aren't supposed to watch, I'm told. It's rude; it's wrong. People aren't supposed to watch. There's things other people aren't supposed to see.

But I see. And I add what I watch to my growing list of secrets.