I wish I could say I have a beautiful, stunning, scenic view from the 25th floor of my towering apartment building in London, overlooking some famous landmark. But that would be a complete lie. The truth is, my “beautiful, stunning, scenic” view is of a brigade of currently dead trees and honeysuckle vines that hints at a sea of cars. And my “towering apartment building in London” is a two-story, red brick house plopped down in Missouri. My view is from the window on the 2nd floor. It looks just above the tree wall, at the sky.
The sky fascinates me: its ever-changing colors like a painter’s palette, the stars that dot it at night like fireflies, the magnificent clouds that tower it before a summer storm. Sometimes it takes my breath away with its glorious patterns. Then sometimes it’s gray; nothing more, nothing less, Just gray. That doesn’t tend to take my breath away.
That window isn’t my only window. Yes, I have another window in my room facing my neighbor’s house, but that’s not what I mean. I have a window for the world, my school, my friends. I have a couple of them too. I look at everything with it: humor, art, help, music, hate, stories, facts, politics, and so many more things.
I have the world in my pocket, and I can’t go anywhere because I’m stuck inside. I can look at a gigantic cloud on my world window, but it doesn’t hit the same as the real thing. It’s like a shackle, a tiny shackle on my imagination and freedom. I want to see the world through my own eyes, not the window. But that’s not the case now. Until then, I’ll wait and fantasize about my London apartment and the sky across the world.