Out the Window

Out the window, I look from the car of life. So many lives pass me by, in cars like and unlike the one I ride. Perhaps I fail to understand them all.

There are motorcycles, which, typically, men ride. Again, I see cars, some with windows open to the world; and some closed off. They snake past the flashing lights of the city.

I just saw my college glowing yet soulless. Barely anyone looks another in this city in the eyes.

One could not count the lights; nor the brand names on the buildings high up. Through these bars, I see everything and nothing. I wonder who is meeting the love of their life and who is dying with haste in this city.

You can never tire of looking out the window of this green vessel I ride. I feel like Napoleon on his horse, the sun lighting up my fingertip to the heavens.

I feel the breeze, and a whiff of metal every now and then. This is permanent as the blue above my green armadillo—our green armadillo.

Intermission. We are in a different car now. This car is like Antarctica. Air the beast feeds through a dreamy regurgitator freezes like the stun of numb defeat.

Drops of rain, the blessings of the almighty, narrow my vision as I look out the window. As comfortable as I am, the colours of the city cloud my beelined sight. Today, I feel free.

A seal flies alongside us in this metallic hunk, which vomits frost and sees flaws so deep. It inspires me as I zone out from the world completely. My heart pounds though from no apparent threat.

I feel like the camels in a mirage of inspiration. This could go on forever. The trees salute us on the mammoth reveal of our metallic hull. This windshield is made of memories, and the rearview is the past we just left behind.

Nothing could be more beautiful than this scene as I view it, through the eyes of an eagle up above. The sticks of red, green, and blue dwindle like the uncertain fate of us humans.

Brakes and risky maneuvers span the entirety of our rides. At this point, I realise what I have never thought of before. Sitting in this same car, we go to the same destination.

This metal boulder rolls vehemently and unstoppably. I ask our driver, “Are we there yet?” He replies with a flicker of the lights, the eyes of the car—the road in front lights up.

The guard to the gates of eternity does not stop us. The grim, tall figure is merely a reminder of where we are going. I see cars in rows coming back and their golden eyes full of joy.

The raindrops have stopped their suicide mission onto the innocent skin of those bare of an umbrella. Palm trees drip gently and soothe the eyes. Together with the starkly silent alleys, from this metal cardboard box, they make for a heavenly scene.

We are now in the club of heroes. We are close to home, and I can smell the bit of gravy I have not sipped. Now, I want to fly home.

I feel drowsy now, and out of any worldly interest to ever have befallen a man. Glass sculptures and an eternal flame crowd my instant dreams. The snaking is more intense now as we inch closer to home.

Everything has become so still now that you could hear the water of the pond in front of the mosque overlap. This wonderful silence makes me forget day and night and go into a deep trance that I control. My head spins as I sit and wait in an armchair of angel wings for the sealer of fates.

This road is the only thing alive in this town, which is now a colony of dim firefly lights. For the first time, I look behind me, and our driver stops me. “Do not,” he says, “For you need not turn your head.” He is telling the truth.

I look in the rearview. One by one, the street lights we have crossed dim out. I look out the window of this ride I call life, which runs on hope.


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