The world outside my window encompasses unexplored opportunities and priceless adventures. It is where the sun sets and rises to wake up and buckle the world, and where the green jelly sea weds the pale blue sky.
Right outside my window, the trees turn green and brown periodically. Herein, bloom the tulips red, white and mauve. It is where spring builds its little hub, and dancing pixies paint the world brighter. Outside this window the distressed veins of withering grapevine and pots of drying roses discover new hope.
It is where the carpenter deploys his magic workshop and sadists prepare artful musings. Outside this window rests every inconspicuous cellar and attic where creators give form to their private dreams.
Through this window I see the sky which conceals alien galaxies within it. It is here, where dying stars, too, carry the baggage of wishes of the considerate. Herein, the globe unearths its paradoxical concoction of secrets and meanings.
Here, Rapunzel’s endless golden strands sway and sun dials tattoo shadow lines on the ground underneath. It is where the fireflies dance and sandstorms waver and whirlpool like articulate mermaids. This place hosts both motes of dust and towering skyscrapers. Here the fictious hammock and childhood swings oscillate with time.
This world is the proscenium of drizzle, hurricane and draught. It is the cup fuddled with tears of sorrow and moments of happiness. This world outside my window witnesses the marriage of my imagination and their reality. And it is astonishing that all that separates me from this world is a shield of glass. A very breakable, fragile sheet of glass.