Because somehow sitting on the inside of the window,
says something more about sitting on the inside of my life
looking further in.
What ever happened to out?
To being on the outside,
pretending to be objective,
as if it made me more than anything
or anyone here and gone?
What happened to outside,
and the fragility of such futility
as claiming to be sighted
when I was clearly blind?
but at best
stumbling around in the dark
“I see! I see! Oh why can’t you see?!”
and yet, never going anywhere-
always questioning everywhere the blind went
and wandering along behind them…
as if that were the answer.
As if it were somehow different from the question.
I love this window.
I love the pins that open and close it,
or at least, used to.
I love the open, single pane of it,
unobstructed by lines and tiny boxes that distort the view.
I love that it lets in so much light all day long,
as if it made that choice itself.
i love the abuse it has endured and how it’s still here-
still doing what the window was meant to do.
let light in,
keep weather out,
provide a view into,
or out of.
a good, solid, window
living a good, solid, window life.
I want, at times, to hate this window.
but, that is not true.
i love this window and that is the truth.
which makes it no truth at all worth believing.
just a window.
it’s just the window.
the only truth about the window,
is that it’s a window…
unless you use them for doors-
which would make it a door for you.
a window for me.
so it’s not a window.
it could be a door.