When I was little, I loved visiting other people’s homes. There was something mystical about them, especially those homes that were in the same block of flats as ours — and hence, the rooms had the same layouts, which made for very interesting comparisons: what have the neighbors made with this space? Does it look bigger, or smaller? Does it look more cozy, or too packed? Most times I liked those other homes more (naturally, grass is always greener).

Maybe this is why I enjoyed Carver’s short story Neighbors so much.

This holds true not only for homes. When I was sick, I’d borrow someone’s notebook to copy the notes. Inspecting other people’s notebooks transported me to a magical world where everything was the same (the notes), yet so different (the style, the layout, the emphasis). I loved riding in other people’s cars. Even in a video game called Civilization that as a little fellow I played with unmatched fervor, I regarded the possibility to inspect the enemy’s city with a quiet kind of awe. What has he done with the city? Why is my city so bleak in comparison?

This was one of the most helpful way to gain perspective and the later realizations that our minds are great at comparing externalities but are really bad at comparing something within with something on the outside.