Windows

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The countless lives behind windows, every one so anonymous and precious, immersed in stories uniquely drawn, unknown by their window frames alone, the spectrum of mortal experience played out in rooms full of days and years, unscripted moments in-between, Venetian blind shadows of indoor souls going about their sundry routines, unspoken rituals of identity and relationship, or the windows that hide the horrors of private hells, or cursed prisons of gloom, nightmares the neighbors hear and ignore, or the sobbing child, crouched and trembling in the dark corner, or the wife's face burning with shame from a fresh and angry slap, or the massively silent, glacial pain of loneliness, windows of the heart forever nailed shut, or those empty windows that reveal nothing at all to passersby, to an outside world too Tick-Tocked to care anyway, or cracked windows of brutal negligence, quiet terrors, subtle tortures of circumstance, or the dusty windows on the sides of buildings of wasted dreams, or a sacred, foretold Window that framed suffering for all humankind, marking a baptismal sacrifice in blood and deliverance from evil, or the happy window you haven't seen yet, the one that's always open, what view would there be? The countless lives behind windows, every one so anonymous and precious.

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