Rooftops

I’ve always found them magical. I mean, most of our lives we implement ourselves into the most perplexing of entanglements, where everyone inside thinks they’re doing the right thing, when they’re all tangling the entanglement much more than it had already been entangled. Everyone in the entanglement either puts the blame on themselves or on anyone else, when the blame is sourced in the entanglement itself. And, in this entanglement, we’re all caught up in the yelling, and the screaming, and the bad-mouthing, and other disturbing whatnots. Everything is just so loud, and it’s like the universe is sinking in, gathering its weight on our shoulders, and expecting our paper bones to be able to carry its rocks.

So sometimes, sometimes we need to breathe. To just let go for a couple of seconds—a couple of minor seconds, really—and smile, so that’s when I found rooftops. You see, when you’re on a rooftop, the world suddenly silences itself, as if you are finally the visitor, and it is the audience—The world suddenly respects you. It stops yelling, and screaming. You look down on all these houses—you’re so high up. You look at them and it’s like the world expanded again. All of that noise compressed itself into those little houses, and kept itself there.

The rooftop is where the stars gather to remind you of just how great you are, how vast the world is, and how you’ll get through. It’s when the moon reminds you of life, and the wind tells you: You’re still here.

The rooftop is where we find our freedom. It’s where we look up and realize that the sky’s yet to fall.