An Impossibility

I stare out of my window at another window in the distance.

It is below a dormer roof, square, and looks to have a white wood-framed panel. It might be plastic, but I don’t think so.

I wonder about what the room contains. For some reason I just assume it is a bedroom. Does somebody look out from there regularly? Are they clothed or naked when they do so? What are they thinking, and what is their perspective?

I can partly imagine what they see, because it’s not too far away from my house. But how does that perspective look through their eyes? What do they look at?

And is the room they occupy plush or sparsely furnished? Has anybody ever died there? Maybe it is completely empty, and has been for a long time. Maybe it isn’t a bedroom at all, but a bathroom. A loo with a view.

It looks dark from a distance, and I can see birds flying past. Can they see in? Do birds ever fly into the glass, like they sometimes do at our house.

My own window is looking out on a trillion other windows. With each possible story they could tell, just a tiny fragment of a universal whole.

Boredom has become An Impossibility.