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Sam GB Ingrams

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Member Since: Jan, 2011

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The Window
by Sam GB Ingrams
Sunday, January 30, 2011
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Something I wrote a while ago, while peering down from my window onto the street below on a Friday night, from the perspective of a shut-in (a perspective I used to embody far too well)

I watch them, you know.

From my vantage point, no more than a couple of metres above ground, and around fifty from the street, I watch them. I long to be among them, long to simply float like they do, but alas my leaden feet do keep me tethered to my world.

Them, the free people, the free willed people, the debaucherers, the drinkers, the stoners, the slinkers, the intoxicated, the liars, the thieves, the straightened... on they walk. Skip. Hop. A constant companion they have in their crinkling plastics, the work of a thousand tiny creatures who work so they can play.

I sit. And I watch them.

They have probably arrived by now. The giddy vapours must have taken them. The next few hours will be a blur, an over exaggerated tale for the day after. Their exploits will be remembered, but not by them. The overseers will remember them. The Blode will remember them. But they never will.
I sit. And I think of them.

They won't remember me. I'm a face in a different crowd. Why should they remember me? I'm the face in the window, I'm the text on their screen, I never gave them a reason to think of me. Let them be happy. I will be content with that.

Things are said. Innocence is tainted. First timers become old hands within hours. Anger arises, healed quickly by merriment. At least, I think so. I don't know. I don't see so far.
I sit. And I visualise them.

And the time of night has arrived when the wanderers begin to return to their homes, and for a select few, the homes of others. For those outside, there is only the bitter winds and cold air to fuel themselves, indoors, thought-shifters and other head-weathers serve to cool the fires of the week. This is what it is to be free

I sit. And I watch them

They sing, they jump, they dance, they scream. I hear them. A beautiful cacophony piercing the thick glow of our town. I know this one. I knew that one. I try to hum along, but the tune is too advanced for even my understanding; I never realised how many interpretations there were of 'Yellow'. An odd word. Apparently it rhymes with 'ColdPlay are SHIT-O' But who am I to judge?
I sit. And I write about them.

And they sit.

And they join me once again.

In my own little window

Into our own little shared piece of world.

I sit.

And I am contented.

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