Right outside my window, a clear blue streams gurgles past. It takes along with it odd, smooth, glassine pebbles, some leaves and the occasional lizard. I can hear the tiny tick tick noises the reptilians make when trying to cling onto the bank with miniature nails. Their holds don’t stick, and they flow along, accepting.
There is a cherry tree to my right, and Sakura blossoms soar on the delicate breeze. The breeze rises delighted, and to me, rings with the sounds of gongs and tradition, infused with green apple incense; messages from lovers and enemies alike.
Koi fish swim in a pond to my left. Brilliant colours of orange, white and black. Streaks of fire, yet quiet presences. Calm spirits.
I see children running around. Some sit dipping their toes in the water, shrieking every time a fish glides too close. Scales on skin. Nature nudging humanity, seeking a connection.
Further on, I see a park where more pink blossoms are strewn about, seemingly carelessly. And yet I feel there is an order to the universe.
All of this makes me think: I must be schizophrenic.
No I’m not sitting in a Japanese haven. All I see outside my window is cement and concrete, carpeted in pitch black night. But what’s the point of showing that to anyone? Where would the fun be in that?
I have a window in my mind. It opens to imagination.
Because I hate cement. And grey things.