dark time.

I have a confession to make. I enjoy looking into the windows of other people's lives. My friend, whom I will not name for protective purposes, helped me to admit this. It's like watching a silent film, that's even more interesting because it's not made up. You know that behind that wall is an actual room, as opposed to the back of a set.

I live in a neighborhood that is ideal for this pastime. The houses are grandiose, built during the roaring twenties. A lot of Tulsa's wealth has come down from liquid gold, the natural resource that nowadays will start wars. Back then, Okies were getting rich, either directly from the ground, or indirectly, by making money from men who were making money in oil (after reading this previous sentence, I realized it's still applicable today, but that's not the point). The point is that back then they built backyard garages (where I live) behind beautiful homes with many stories, many balconies, and many big windows, perfect for spying into during the night.

They built these homes side by side, down long wide streets with trees lining the middle. These trees are planted in grass covered dirt and, appropriately, encircled with concrete curb. Like I said, I was riding my bike at night, distracted by the lives of others, too distracted to look out for pieces of concrete growing from the pavement. Priorities.

It was an incredible autumn evening. There was a chill in the air, and an eery sort of quiet. So, when I came a house where people were walking about, it makes sense that the man's voice I heard would carry so easily through the neighborhood. I heard it, followed by the laughter of others, and I immediately changed directions. I was drawn toward it, in hopes that I wouldn't just be looking at houses, but maybe I would get a glimpse of life too! This distracted excitement redirected my bike, strait toward the house, and strait toward the curb unseen.

CRASH! BANG! ERK!

I dragged myself up from under my bike, dusted the grass from my jeans, and attempted to ride on...Away from the house and the voice that indirectly caused this massive bruise currently adorning the area of my leg, just below the knee. My stubborn bike was, well, stubborn. Though my tires were point away from the house, the seat of my bike was pointing toward it. I rode on, with a crooked seat and clicking chain.

And I laugh, wondering how many things in life I pass by, distracted by those things that amount to be just that. Distractions. I think I am ever in need of a little more curb.