When I was younger, I loved flying at night. Seeing the lights from the sky was spectacular to me, and I was constantly in awe. There is one flight in particular that sticks out in my mind. I believe we were flying over New Mexico or Arizona. Everything was lit up around the airport, but once we got away from the city, it was completely dark. There were lights that would be in lines, which I presumed were roads. And then there were lights that were so scattered and sparse that it made me sad. I don’t know why, really. I used to look at all of those small, orange lights that were lonely and isolated, and I’d think to myself, “Don’t be sad. I see you. I know you’re there and that you exist.” I felt so strange thinking this, but I thought it every time. I’d think that toward the people that lived there, by those lights. Truth is, I didn’t know if they were happy and content or lonely and isolated like the streetlights that exposed and pointed them out to begin with. But for some reason, I felt pity for them.
I just feel weird about this. I’m not sure if it is a reflection of me, as if I’m the one living alone by the streetlight, or if this makes me a sympathetic and caring person. Or both.