Windows

by Ondine Evans

all day i stare at you rather than through you,

into a world behind a screen, not the world outside glass,

a world that has threads, memes, trends, likes, and followers,

not paths, clouds, grass, smells, and wanderers;

(both have traffic, nonetheless).

i open many many of you, instead of just the one propped open to let in the breeze,

and the scenes i view through you are legion, global, but always flat - the illusion of dimensions, of movement given by pixellated areas of dark and light,

while the breeze flaps the curtain against the wall and the scene outside changes with the sun's movement across the sky.

you engage me, enthrall me, en-trance me, enslave me through the long hours, i wrestle with your imperturbablity, my only weapons my fingers dancing across a keyboard, striking letters, making meaning, coding reason, posting messages to the great blue yonder,

while at home, i just poke my head out to yell hello to my neighbour's boy child, grinning up at me with toothless glee.

and, when darkness comes or my eyes ache and my mind is tired, i close you down, pane by pane, your multicoloured worlds wink out, and you are gone, leaving only a black featureless plane,

and, back in my room, i draw the curtain across the glass where i see myself reflected, a singularity, alone, unplugged.

written in response to exercise 10