comforting

My window looks out on the courtyard of our apartment complex. From my desk, sometimes, I can see people walking around--when I look up from my work, which is seldom these days. The window's at a funny angle to the desk, anyway. I only get a little sliver of it.

They tell me there's a whole world out there I'm missing. It's not that I never go out, of course. Or even that I never have any leisure time. But there is, as they say, a whole world out there, and I don't know anything about it. It's so unfamiliar. Out there, the unexpected happens. Problems happen. And I don't know what to do about it. It's safer in here.

I know the sound of my keyboard perfectly. I know my music. I know every crack in the wall, I know the texture of the floors and my desk's surfaces. I know the little sliver of a view out my window, every inch of it. These are things I know. I know what my work will be like. I know what to do when something goes wrong with it. And because I know it, I'm in control.

I know there's lots of things I don't know. I don't know why the things I said made her so upset. I don't know why I got so angry when she said she was leaving. It's a mistake, my father always told me, to try to know everything. So I let those things go. It's safe in here and I won't be interrupted at work.