Window and Brick

I look up at the window and brick. From a downtown alley. Outside, the soft light streams onto the brick forming yellow squares at the top. But, what would I see from inside, if I could look out?

From the outside, I can’t see much looking inside. The light that hits the glass exposes portions that appear to be boarded up but not much else. The frame has dark streaks on its ledge; tears running down through time. The light casts a hopeful spell, there’s mystery and endurance. Age has settled upon the brick as it has settled on the window, a brave display of character.

Inside there may be a lone single bed with a naked mattress. Perhaps, the stuffing pouring out within a gaping rupture. A musty smell that permeates throughout as inside is trapped from escape to the outside. Does someone still live in this room? Maybe. Or, they died here recently? Not in a hospital. Not walking in the street or at work. But instead, alone in a single room, sharing company with the musky air and the cacophony of sounds that filter through from outside.

Looking in provides a very different perspective than from looking out.