Writer's Window

Finishing with the early morning routine, he sits in the unfolded chair by the window, facing South, to write this write-up for the assignment. Sitting beside the window in the late morning hours, has been his practice to kick in the writer inside him, and put out his thoughts into writing. The chair with thick-clothed red and blue strips and long hands that hold a wooden pad, is at an angle to the edge of the window, letting him leisurely place both his hairy legs on the edge, crossed. The window is fully covered with an iron mesh with squares and rectangles between its fine metal bars. Outside the iron mesh are two horizontally-sliding glass panes, which would let you open only half of the window space, at any time. But, there is no scenic view outside the window except for a clump of buildings of all sizes and some miscellaneous trees.

The writer’s pent house with a single lengthy room is placed on the third floor of a building beside an unoccupied forest-like land. The elevation and the absence of any tall buildings surrounding it, allows a chilly fresh air to flow in and out of the room, keeping a pristine aroma, unless all the windows are closed. Adding to the almost virgin-isque uncontaminated environment are the chirping birds that somehow take their own time throughout the day, to let their voice heard along with the distant horn sounds from the main road.

The black and white wallpaper on his compact MacBook, placed on the wooden pad says, “don’t pray or prey; think, do, love and live,’ a small sample of his creative work that he always felt proud of writing, no matter how others felt about it. It struck to him few days back that he left out mentioning one of his passionate things about life in there: eating. As he smoothly touches the delicate keys of the Mac with his fingers to put the description of his own environment into words, the December sun reaches midway sending in his rays into the writer’s window. He shakes his crossed legs whenever he is in mood and has a writing flow that engrosses his mind. The legs stop shaking when he hits a roadblock, and they start moving again, after a while. He moves his left hand below the chair to gather the pale yellow water-bottle, rotates its lid off and takes a sip of the world-renowned flavourless drink, before going back to his writer’s window, which he knows would be soon closing.