We want to know secrets, and we want to know what goes on behind those windows.” ~David Lynch I have a problem. I can admit that. I admit it to myself everyday. But I tell myself it's harmless, and so I don't do much to change it. Some people might think it's wrong, sure. But that doesn't matter to me. I would never share my problem with anyone, I keep it to myself, so I don't have to worry about what other people think. It keeps me entertained, that's for sure. It passes the time and even provides me with further entertainment when I'm done. Sometimes I worry, a little, that I might get caught. But I haven't yet, not in any serious way. Occasionally, I'll get an odd look when I'm out and about, but it's easy to chalk it up to coincidence or imagination. Unless someone was watching me all the time, they would never know. And there's the irony. I'm a voyeur. Not in the sexual sense of the word, I'm not a pervert. I just have a tendency to fixate on a person, so I watch them. Maybe I'll follow them a few times, just to see what they are up to. They're always strangers, I never talk to them, I just watch. And then I go home, and I write about them. I write stories about them, and keep them all to myself. A big file on my laptop is filled with the accounts of other people's days.
