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by ThatWriterWoman 2 years ago in love
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Doused in sunshine - The view from my window

Heavy curtains open up like my reluctant eyelids, letting in light and warmth from the new day. Brown roof tiles peek out under years of moss and birds begin to whoosh here and there, occasionally landing on the dew-soaked growths to look to the ground; where tasty prizes squirm and wiggle. Grass appears to perk up, windows open, and the world seems to turn once more.

Pushing open my window invites in a cobweb-clearing freshness that pervades the head and settles on the tongue. Early morning carries a crisp feeling; still and new.

(The Name of Life or Inochi No Namae is from an animated film made in Japan where a young girl is trapped in a beautiful spirit world but longs to go home and stay with her family again. This piece of music accompanies my writing)

There's a word from Japan; 'Komorebi', which describes the beams of light that manage to shine through leaves. Bathing in the sun these days often makes me feel somewhat leaf-like; attached but separate, solid but translucent. As with the stem of a leaf, I too am tethered by circumstance. But I am not tethered alone. I grow from a sturdy branch made of love and hope and understand how lucky I am to be allowed to reach for the sun.

'Komorebi' has a second meaning; melancholic longing or nostalgia for a person, place or thing that is far away from you. A feeling shared by many when unable to fall away from the branch. One shared by me.

I didn't always bathe in the sun alone. I had a beautiful lady by my side. While we saw many cloudy days, being with her carried that fresh morning feeling. Then again, I was always told that the stormiest nights make for the clearest mornings, where the birds eat well and the light shining through leaves reflected through beads of water, leaving no area dark.

Until I can see her again, I must substitute her presence with a landscape frame of the outside world. An impossible task for even the stunning of paintings could never compare to the life I share with her.

A small front garden, shaped by hedges, reminds me of how she kept the noise at bay. Past that, a rough road made from harsh tarmac with the occasional car rumbling along it's surface. Memories of playing ball games with my brother soften its look, making it seem less intimidating; the same way a plaster covers a grazed knee. Across the river of tar-soaked stones lies another garden, followed by a house that mirrors our own; staring back at us. To have a house to the four of us is a luxury I'm reminded of when I see the flurry of students whoosh here and there to run errands, often disgruntled in the morning and jovial once night has fallen. Their laughter makes me wonder if they are truly happy to be tethered to such a busy branch, each sacrificing part of their own light to accommodate for others. Their lodgings are cloned to the left and right forming a row of houses that remind me of looking through a circus mirror; reflections peeking out from behind one another and tethering off to the end of a frame. Changes in view come from the shapes formed by vaporous clouds, they're more interesting than human habitats could ever be. Creations of huge blooming explosions, tall cushioned structures and thick blankets are steadily strewn across the sky or blown away entirely. Reminding those below that nothing is permanent.

The landscape frame of my window offers a screen to view what my life was before, when I was carried to new places. A mad, simian part of me wants to jump through it, to break the frame and run into the world again. I often lay on my bed staring through it, limbs light and soul satisfied with the fantasy, for a little while.

The truth is; nothing is as it was, and it won't be for a long time. I am not naive, I know I lay on a bed, not in grass, I know I am not well, my medication sees me through each day and I know I am away from the one person who would make it all okay again in an instant.

But hope can grow on the strangest surfaces, with a little light. One day I will be free, and the breeze will carry me to the one I love again.

Until then I must hold on.

We must all hold on.

I think I'll buy a window box.


About the author


An aspiring female writer from the UK, 23. Twitter:

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