This tenement where I live is like a three winged star and when I sit on my desk and look outside, to my left I can see the adjacent wing at 120°. And there are windows. All shut. There are curtains – green, blue and maroon. There is a plant at one window. Milk cartons at another (poor students’ way of refrigerating). Black sneakers hanging outside another. A table lamp on another. I have lived behind shut windows for days now. Watching the seasons change everyday and Auroras break..
Winter by night unfolding life in the warmth of brick walls. Spring by morning. The neighbouring supermarket is selling saplings and barbecue grills. In the afternoon flying kids chase pigeons at the town square. Colourful summer wear is on display on the shop-windows.. And now as I look at the shut windows around, for the first time I wonder about lives and life-stories contained behind them. From the remote corners of the world, and memory. Like myself.
Right here – Batiment E, Chambre 335, I have delineated forgotten tales to curious ears and made love with love itself.
What must be going on behind these dozen odd windows? Do longing tears fall on lonesome pillows? Do loving lips find lovable allies? Is art being courted somewhere? Is an interesting fable being swept out? Are awaiting dinners getting cold? Are grateful prayers being sent out?Who waters that plant? Who adds that milk to their coffee? Just whose are those shoes? When did you wear them last? And where did you go? Did you then smile at the kid on the street? Do you remember what your mother told you when you went to places like those with her? Do you have something to say? Or a smile to exchange? Or someplace hidden behind these flowery trees where you would want to take me to? Do you? If you opened your window, you’d see me writing about you. If only you’d let the winter out.