window - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Upon my window there are stars, stars made of plastic that poisoned the earth in their production. They are stars that bear the scratches of time and are certainly less pretty than anything I may buy today. Yet they are my stars. They are my stars on my window and special to my heart. So if you don't mind, if you can forgive, I still need to reach for those stars with a smile in my heart.
In the brilliant light of May I can't even see the glass. The sun streams in like a flamboyant guest, not waiting for an invitation. No longer can I see the white vinyl frame, just the shape. I think this window is what sold me on the house, it's like an arched doorway: low to the ground and reaching high to the ceiling. Perhaps sun-bleaching of the floors and couch should concern me, but it doesn't. The rays warm the couch and lift me to notions of gardening and walking the dog. I know he needs it, I think we both do.
Will always said when a door closes another one opens but, the way I see it, when a window closes you can only see what could have been through it's transparent surface. They're devious, sly, and tricky the way they allow you to see through them, though you can't get to your past option.regret. The images that they reflect are flawless they don't come out backwards like a mirror so you can see who you really are. A real eye-opener. On rainy days they only want to shape the way you think, so they distort all on the other side. On sunny days they glare brightly so you can't see, blinding you completely, leaving you vulnerable. Sometimes it's hard to hang onto what Will said especially since he's no longer by my side.
Ryan could feel the cuffs digging into his wrists and rope around his ankles; his left cheek lay firmly in the muddy dust that coated the cold concrete floor. From a high window came rectangle of daylight, sending white beams to illuminate the grime and show the dust that swirled in the air. If he could reach it he could find out where he was. Even if he couldn't tell the exact location, even just knowing if he was still in LA would be something. He strained his ears for sounds, for cars or for ships. Were there gulls or garden birds? Was this industrial or residential? Again he focused on the window, the frame was new but it wasn't the sort you could open. There must be ventilation shafts. He knew how to get his hands free, he just didn't relish doing it. Enough pressure in the right spot would break his thumb, then it would be time to check out and report in.
For thee long months the window has been my only connection to the outside world. Without it this house would feel like a tomb, already it's as quiet as a mausoleum. The phone doesn't ring and the door stays shut unless the home nurse is making her call, or my daughter stops by with the groceries. I want her to sit and talk but I have nothing to say that will interest her and she doesn't want to burden me with her worries about money, the kids and that good-for-nothing husband I told her not to marry. Sometimes I ask her to move some furniture or make some tea, anything to stop her going so fast. I see the frustration on her face and know I have lived long enough to be a burden. The rest of the day I stare through the rectangle of glass to the folks that walk by, the delivery trucks and the traffic that stands still much of the time. Once in a while I'll see a neighbour, but by the time I've pulled my walker over they're gone. So it's just me and the glass, clear or rain-splattered...
The window is so large it reminds me of a store-front, but so high up who can see in anyway? The window is triple-glazed and so clear that the panorama is like a high definition screen at the movie theatre. The birds travel past, buffeted by the winds that whistle through these towers, as if to remind us that we're in their space now. This real-estate in the sky feels so futuristic, I wouldn't be surprised if Terri just beamed herself in here right from the office. The city below is so far away it's like another world, those ant-like people and all their problems are of no more consequence than temporary static on intercom. All this concrete is my cocoon and the window, well, the window shows me as much detail as I want to know.
The window is a hundred years older than the one in my house yet perfect in every way. The glass, though clear, is as thick as a beer bottle. Each rectangle, no bigger than a dollar-store notebook, is held in place with black iron. Like the stone walls it was built to last. Though it must have been so much harder to make, the top is a gentle arch rather than flat. I want to lift it from its little hole and take it home with me but I'd never get it out, and even if I did it would weigh a tonne.
The window is single pane. It's old but not attractively so. It's just the kind they threw in twenty years ago expecting it to last fifteen at the most. Even inches away it's like standing in front of an open refrigerator. No matter how much heat I pump out from that three-bar gas fire it just flees out of the window or up the chimney. Last year we bought that thin plastic stuff that's supposed to make it double glazed, this year I spent the cash on a thicker coat at the thrift store. Doesn't make the skin on my face any warmer or stop the condensation that pools on the peeling ledge, but it made more sense at the time. Now at least I don't look so poor out on the street, unless they look closely at my shoes. But who does that? Who cares anyway?
Maya slumped against the wall, feeling the bumps of the archaic wood-chip wallpaper dig through her t-shirt. She looked down at the picture that had once been a vibrant union jack. Without lifting it to the light that struggled through the window pane she could see her skin below. She turned to watch the street for signs of the gangs, she couldn't stay in all day, she had to get to Micky's before sun-down. It was hard to see through the cracks that distorted the outside world in their spider-web way. She could only just make out the rain-drops she'd been hearing all morning through the grime. It looked empty enough, perhaps now was a good time. When she pulled her hand back from the cold aluminum frame the tips were black. Curious. On closer inspection the dark seal was covered in what she supposed was black mildew. With a quick wipe of her hands on the jeans she'd slept in it was time to find her keys. Her runners were already on her feet of course, she didn't want them stolen...
The room's one window, too high for a woman not standing on a stool to peer out of, had lozenge panes of leaded glass, thick glass bubbles and warped like bottle bottoms.
...sitting here in the Ossington subway station waiting for the northbound bud, with the dim light filtering through the film of ash and oil on the plate-glass windows...
The window had a lace of frost around its edges, left over from a frigid night.
Ancient mullioned window, sash windows, leaded windows with stain glass flower patterns or geometric designs, leaded and stain glass 16th century church window with stone frames, encrusted with dirt, grimy, filthy, grainy, shattered, broken, single pane, double glazed, sparkling, frosted glass, small, mean proportions, high and narrow, as small and mean as a jail cell, large bay window, rotting frames, aluminium framed, covered in condensation, mold and mildew around the frame, dusty metal blinds with grimy pull strings, boarded up with plywood.
Double glazed with a plastic veneer, the window is sealed shut. Terrified neighbours gather outside.
Show me a window and I will show you where your heart yearns to be. Is it a view to the ocean and the playful hearts whom dwell there? Is it of a meadow adorned with rainbow earth-given wings? Is it window to the stars, one to show how they give of their brilliance, an ever-present part of the passing night? For what you see is yourself also, the beauty reflected within as joy. This is connection to our world, our universe, and our belonging too.