Anne

She sits in the window of her house, two down from mine. In the neighbourhood I see to be fouled, litter-ridden, and ugly. Through my homesick lenses, all I see is dull concrete, endless traffic, and people locked away in their bubbles, grumpy faces, not caring about other people. And she sits at the window in her small working-class home, and it looks dirty and messing from the sidewalk, but she sits and she stares out and she smokes and she looks fairly content, many afternoons. Similarly, I used to sit infront of a window in my old home, and stare for hours on end. Only I was soaking up a pristine view of mountains and ocean. Does she see beauty in her scene? My bias blinds me, I know, but I simply can't see how she could. So in my mind, I create her story. And she sits in her window and she stares out and she sees what i see, only she's lived there all her life. She knows little else and she finds a comfort in it. Her name is Anne.