Windows are fascinating.
Many adventures have started with a gaze, a deep alley, a train station or an intriguing stranger. We all share the secret hope that there is something better, across the river or over the hill. A universal wish that we were out there somewhere, not on this side of the window.
Yes, windows are fascinating.
Why else do we as schoolchildren, stare out at the sky, yearning for the end-of-class bell? The sound of freedom.
For the imprisoned, a barred window reveals an illusory glimpse of a radiant unreachable blue sky. High on the wall, unattainable. A hopeless hope. A taunt.
For travellers, windows are portals to what was, what might be. Maybe waiting to see yellow flowers near the highway, reminiscent of a promise made. Exchanging a coy smile with a stranger, establishing a temporary connection. Thoughts may dig up familiar fears from the pools of forgotten memory – something so haunting that it rattles the illusion of happiness built so carefully around us. The telephone wires on the side of the road, sagging between poles, going up and down with the same rhythm as our heartbeats. Little pieces of ourselves, being sprinkled as we go.
For the blessed, on cold winter evenings, these frosted windows hold fort between the chill and warmth. Letting the evening rays ballet on the furniture before stretching and yawning, eventually bowing over blankets. The window, a defeated soldier, surrenders to the darkness outside. Promising an end to this isolation as soon as the birds wake up.
On sunny days, these angry windows glare back, blinding us completely. Sunlight comes dancing in like a flamboyant guest, uninvited. Magnified rays glisten over dusty coffee tables, penetrating even the darkest of shadows. Nudging, poking, waking everything up.
Windows are devious too.
They are sly and tricky.
They allow you to see through them, yet firm on their place like a barrier. Unclear in their deception, not backwards like a mirror. Unconsciously, making us trust what we see.
These same windows, on rainy days, manipulate us, changing the way we see the world, inducing a silent melancholy, distorting everything we see. Playing a slow, sad song, curving the straight and blunting the edges. Mellow blues, pinks and reds, all merged together in a silvery mist. Hot breath on cold glass, translating thoughts to words, clearing up the abstract.
And then there are our own windows. Traitors to our souls, broadcasting the truth behind emotionless faces. Windows that once brimmed, but are now like chipped paintings, or a mountain eroded by a stream. Windows that were the source of unforgiving frost, a swirling dark storm, an angry ocean littered with sparkling stars that threaten to swallow you if you are brave enough to tempt them.
Yes, windows of all kinds.
Innocent partitions, hopeful portals, furious hurdles or even traitors.
These windows are just…. fascinating.
