The Art of Staring out the Window

It’s funny how
windows, glass panels,
plain viewing screens,
insignificant as they seem,
are that by which
much of life is gleaned,
made more attractive
by the pelting rain that
turns you introspective
as your vision swims,
twisting, turning,
like the zigzagging
droplets making their journey
from top to bottom
and bottom to obscurity;
just like how the scene
on the other side
is wiped clean,
replaced by images,
projected faintly;
the storied pages
of your mind fleeing
from reality,
a slideshow of
‘what ifs’ and ‘could haves’;
a safe haven so scarce,
a repository for
unchecked fantasies
and alternate endings
to episodes
long concluded;
a gallery of
imaginative entropy,
all encompassing,
all consuming,
a remedy so soothing
on a soul so weary
of life’s lemons
squeezed into
your poor eyes,
but still you keep
them wide open,
in fear of
losing all of your
comforting projections
at the next
self-aware blink,
and I think that
as long as the
rain keeps on falling,
and the thunder
keeps on rolling,
so will your roll of
highlight reel
because to feel something,
no matter how false,
is better than
nothing at all.

 

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