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The view from the window

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The view from the window

Here I sit again, staring out the same old, worn-out window frame.  Nothing new, nothing unchanged, just like the past few years of my life.

I watch as the tiny droplets slowly drip down the window, in no rush, much like the cars passing by.  I wonder if, like me, they have nowhere to go, to belong.

The houses from across the road had lost their shine.  They had all lost their colour and had slowly started to fade into the dullness now before me.  Much like their owners, they have no personalities, no exciting identities.  Just a bunch of grrey, lifeless buildings.

Even my once beautiful garden is now a wild, untamed mess.  With knee-high grass and old unused toys, which had not been played with in years. 

Sighing, I close my eyes and think to myself that my life, much like the view outside the window, is nothing but an empty reminder of a once beautiful past.


Letting go

Sitting on a warm, wooden chair, looking out of the squared window...

It is a beautiful, sunny day.  Bees buzzing, birds singing and multi-coloured butterflies fluttering around.  It is the last hint of summer.

The young, joyful children who played outside are disappearing, just like the birds, as the sun begins to lay down on the mountain and the moon rises to the open sky.  Grey coulds with golden linings covering the open sky, leaving a colourful spectrum, a mixture of shadings behing.  The sky lights up, burning and shining in shades of crimson.  That burning light is burning in my heart, warming my whole body.  Remembering the good times, the past.

A cool breeze, fom the South, sways the trees to its own rhythm.  Back and forth, back and forth.  The breeze gets tenser, almost aggressive.  I am that breeze.  It pulls the tree, leaves clenching to the branches.  Just like I do, clenching and holding onto the past.  One leaf separates from the others and floats with the breeze.  That is what I must do too.  Leave the past.

There is a screeching sound behind me.  Light stomps on the wooden floor.  A small hand touches mine and shivers go down my spine.  An angel-voice saying, "Grandma, open that window and feel the breeze."

Tagged in: English Essay
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