The Window
If the window could think, it would need urgent therapy. After years of solitude, the glass that once filled it's pane was gone, and the window's wooden frame had grown old and stained with the yellow dirt that filled the air. It was dried from the inescapable heat and the colors it once brandished had long ago faded. It's structural integrity showed the cracks of time and war and, if it could move, it's slouched posture would surely represent an utter disappointment in it's creators. For the window had a history, and if a scientist could analyze the wood that composed the frame, countless discoveries would raise far more questions than could ever hoped to be answered. And if this scientist could simply sit and watch the events that had taken place through the view of the window, the scientist, too, would need therapy. The episodes witnessed through it's frame would repulse and mesmerize the scientist with violence, war, peace, love, tragedy, hope, despair, and just about any other characteristic that is so common to an unforgettable story. If it could think, it would simply sit, waiting for the next story to pass through it's frame like so many others had, hoping for some redeeming quality in the world around it.