The Window

Here's a window. I am in this bedroom that is not mine and will never be mine. I am reminded of a four star hotel room...the symmetry of the furniture, spot-on-cleanliness, no soul, no trace of a pulse or human personality. I think of how we occupy rooms and spaces for extended periods of time and how the air contained in these walls will act as a locked safe for the soul of the person who stayed there. The person could be gone for decades, taking with them their smell, their mess, their dust. What remains is a soul...forever flickering until eventually it leaves and goes elsewhere.

This room is soulless. Large enough to fit two twin beds liberally spaced. One nightstand light to illuminate the space through a large cardboard shade. Colors of phantoms, washed-out whites and grays, and transparent when I let myself realize it. And the window...The Country. Endless bark and stripped down branches from the dead-close winter. All bare but the spots of crusted brown leaves crunching and imploding into themselves to brave the cold, simultaneously fighting a battle never won as the wind will grow stronger in the coming months, their brown skin will blacken, the sun will give little heat while giving an impression of doing so with it's unmatched, burning brightness.

And the window. The one window in the room. I am looking for my other sock. The covers on the bed are a mess. I dare not touch that trap again. I will forfeit my good guest status and refuse to tighten those sheets and fluff the pillow. The window shows a chalky sky. Typical New England scenery with the woods and dark skies common in the Northeast. The sun comes every several minutes, and when it is not in full shine there are sporadic swirls cutting across the landscape all seen from the window. Why is this quarantined for contemplation? Where have I seen this before? Standing bare chested, my arms taut leaning against the sill. The buckle of my jeans not yet fastened. Standing and looking out, questioning, reasoning, abolishing reason, loathing, listening to the chatter of the folks downstairs and pots crashing against metal surfaces...the smell of bacon. I promise...let me see one animal-a rodent, hawk, deer. Let me see one other specimen of life and I will comb my hair, throw on my shirt and leave this bedroom. Give me one interruption in my overly-lived, inauthentic act of staring out this window to break my conjured meditation.

I see nothing but what I first saw out this window. No interruption. No passing of life besides my faint reflection when a dark spot blocks the direct light to this window.
"Who painted this?" I demand answers and receive not one.

Voids. There. I've gone and directed traffic. I've gone and spoiled the ending, the moral, the lesson. Abandoned caverns. Spaces to be filled. Spaces never filled. Spaces once filled but now no more. There. I've blown it to little pathetic pieces and now every single thought will have this umbrella of the lesson. The scope has been adjusted and now it is stuck and breaking from this perspective will be impossible. Blown it to pieces...little unseen particles...where there was once a whole now there is nothing but infinite invisible parts. Ah...again. No fighting it. I feel my Little Blue Book wedged in my pocket and not properly laying on my leg, but tangled in the cloth and partially folded resulting from some mishap when I put on my jeans. If only I had a pen I would rip out Little Blue and frantically record these misfortunes, epiphanies, and this cloud, this morning drunk cloud and this damn window and the void I've grown into a monster of a theme. I would take that void and show it for what it's worth until its pants are down in front of a crowd and the world laughs at its silliness.