What is glass?
Glass is a lot of things. It’s what you graduate to when you’re considered too old for a plastic sippy-cup. It’s what Cinderella’s slipper was made of in that story you still hang on to, believing Prince Charming is coming one day to save you from your unappreciative relatives with their bad grammar and poor taste in movies. But most importantly, it’s that thing they put in windows so you can see outside (or inside, my stalky friend) without having to worry about you or your loved ones falling through to a very undignified death.
For the past almost four months, I’ve lived in a room with an exceptionally large window. It’s got glass throughout, and I often have thoughts about cracking it, especially when I’m feeling stressed out. Maybe it’ll form the shape of a butterfly like in I Am Legend and remind me that everything’s going to be alright, or maybe it’ll just break all the way and the shards will fall onto an unsuspecting soul below and I’ll go to jail for melodramatic manslaughter.
The view isn’t half bad. There are no trees or buildings in the way, so I can see a whole lot. Sometimes I’ll just admire the beauty of the great outdoors with a few of my colleagues, by which I mean my friends and I creepily stare at girls for hours and have conversations like this:
Friend: Did you catch the legs on that one? The one with the blue dress?
Me: Did I? I caught the legs on that one, alright. Get me a calendar , yo! She’s got legs for days!
Friend: I swear if she just happened to walk in here right this moment, I’d do things…
[someone walks in unexpectedly]
Friend: [changing the subject]…I am just mesmerized by the sheer beauty of the aurora as it gently kisses the horizon, giving the appearance of eternal union, yet not. Ah, love is breath-taking endlessness. This country does inspire awe.
Me: Yeah…and the grass is…like…green…
Speaking of sights, I had a mostly unobscured view of some fireworks displays a few weeks back. Those things would light up the night sky in some vivid colors that looked great against the black. Apart from the rain, the fireworks display was the only other thing that caused a scene which gave one the sudden inexplicable urge to write poetry while crying over a Toni Braxton record. It was one of those moments that are undoubtedly romantic, to be shared with someone special, commenting on the colors as you sip red wine in each other’s arms. But, of course, somebody somewhere felt it was funny to prank me by having me in a room full of grown men during that very moment, arguing over whether the sparks were blue or yellow.
It’s moments like these that make a person rethink his decision to wait until marriage to ask someone out on a date. By
some totally crazy Illuminati conspiracy theory coincidence, I had a friend tell me that he’d found me the perfect girlfriend at around that time. The initial curiosity wore off when I remembered that he had a track-record of introducing me to people with the personality of a bag of cement.
So I decided that I was the one who had to save myself from the life of only being hitched to my creator. In my new quest to impress the so-called sapiosexuals, I picked up a dictionary with the aim of improving my vocabulary. I imagined how I’d use the word “sesquipedalian” in a discussion about how Beethoven’s Fifth is superior to Mozart’s Eleventh Piano Sonata, and how the girl would immediately throw herself at me while screaming, “Ravish me, Oxford Man!” But then again, this is real life, and in real life, I couldn’t pronounce the word “pronunciation” to save my life. Also, in real life, there’s only one type of music on which I can hold any type of discussion, and it’s not classical music.
So I just gave up and began reading the dictionary for no definite reason. I read all these words, until I got to “awkward”. Then I got to more thinking. For most people, awkward is a missed high-five or when you realize you’re supposed to push, not pull, but when you’re operating at certain levels of life, it can be completely different. Like when you’re studying someone’s ring and you get so lost in your own thoughts that you find yourself holding their hand like you just popped the question, and people around you start concluding. Or when someone steps on your sneakers and doesn’t apologize so you try to kill them by pushing them out of a window but then they don’t die and the next time you see them you don’t know what to do so you just start flirting and complimenting them on the bruises on their face like you didn’t cause them yourself.
Yet again I found myself giving up before I got to words like “guilt” and “hell” which were sure to dampen my mood further. I locked the door, turned off the lights and continued looking through my large window while contemplating life’s greatest mysteries with my pet duck, Wanda, over a cup of coffee, ready for a new train of thought.
Why are we here?
Is there really an afterlife?
How great is it that Mad Max 4 was the best movie of the year?