virtually stopped, 19a

Today there are two windows.
One reveals another person, sat in another room, another building, doing other things.
The other shows me the outside of whatever is on its inside.
I’ve thought about the inside of that particular outside for a few months.
Not constantly, just now and again.
Now I look out and see the outside of the inside, and between it and I falls the rain.
It’s not heavy, just a drizzle, but you know as soon as you step out into it you’ll be soaked through in minutes.
If I look at the drizzle, from within my space with no lighting and sounds all of its own, I long to be outside soaking up the wet and the grey with my clothes and hair.
I remember looking outside when I was a school child, gazing across the hockey field at the church; all wrapped up in garments of trees and bushes and swirls of leaves.
I remember seeing the rain, between it and I.
The lights were off in the classroom too.
It had its own sounds; I never really heard them...

...some things never change.