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From up here I am powerful.
I am looking down on
all the morning’s journey,
all of yesterday’s tears.
From up here everything
is smooth and shiny,
and little,
almost insignificant.
The cars below look like toys.
Traffic accidents can’t
reach me here.
I am protected from harm
and I don’t have to
see the drivers’ faces and
be aware that they are human,
or wonder about them,
like which ones of them
are having a pleasant Monday,
and which ones are fighting
a tough battle.
Up here I don’t have to
cross any streets or
wait for any light to
change and give me permission
to go somewhere.
Up here I don’t have to move.
I don’t have to find
my way in the middle of
a throng of stories,
careful not to crash into
any of them,
and neither does my own
have to count itself
among them.
So up here I can pretend
I have no such story.
I stand alone
as if in a vacuum,
something that materialized
out of nowhere. Someone
who has no dreams.
Someone not hoping for
anything. Someone who has
no reason to feel such
trivial things as hurt.
And I can pretend I
left all my needs downstairs
and I don’t need anything
at all. Someone as cold
as the high-altitude air.

And I can pretend you don’t matter.
That I can breathe without you.

Photo first found on 500px.
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