It’s strange how very tall buildings never seem all that tall to me. I refer to buildings like the Empire State Building and the Sears Tower and every other feat of architectural daring-do. Up close, craning my neck upward, they seem no larger than other skyscrapers, really. Squinting from far away they seem downright small. Only inside them do they seem very tall to me, when I can see out for miles and the people below are just large enough to dot the streets below. I can see the lights on top of the Sears Tower from my upstairs window and cannot believe that those points of light rest upon 1500 feet of steel and concrete miles away from me. Occasionally, a plane going to or from O’hare will fly in and out of the windowframe, and I have no idea how high off the ground it might be.
I moved to the Chicago because I wanted to move to the Big City. I wanted to see Big City sights and have Big City adventures. I wanted to stare at the buildings and marvel. And I do enjoy the Big City a lot, but fair Chicago seems to grow a little smaller every day I’m here. And now I see a blinking light atop a building and think of stars, and an airplane seems a firefly in the night, and the reflection of the streetlights on the snow reminds me of twilight in autumn. I think of home, for lack of a more poetic metaphor, and I wonder where that place is these days.
Being an adult is hard.
