A View From a Window (written Sept. 2005)

I find it fascinating that, during the course of events of quite a short period of time, one's deepest pleasures--the instances in which the heights of felicity are discovered and reflected upon--may, in fact, become one's most abhorred fears, permeating the atmosphere with sepulchral gloom and draining the individual of all ambitious pursuits. The occasions have been many when I have gazed through the dusty panes, longing to experience that transcendentally pure feeling of occasions past, though each attempt to do so proves more futile than the last. For my window is not merely a window into the world; it is a window into the world that stripped away a sibling's soul and drove out from him the desire to maintain his being. It is a window to my past--a window to my sorrows.
Looking upon the pavement where once stood the magnificent product of his labor, I see no Camaro, nor do I see any trace of the boy whose heart generated such fond memories of this automobile. A gap exists in this area as a gap exists in my heart. Both car and man are broken, far removed from their respective societies and regarded as if their very existence proved detrimental to civilization.
I avert my eyes; I persevere in my attempt to regain philosophical homeostasis, yet my tears detain me. I gaze upon the outside world with blurred vision and marred heart, just as he must gaze through that miniscule opening, significant as a window made of stone. My anguish inhibits my sight. These clouds, these trees, and these homes mean nothing, indistinguishable from any other blobs of grief to my eyes. I cry. I cry as if these tears might reveal to me the shadow of what used to be, as if this fantastic deluge could sprout my pridian reality.
My tears begin to dissipate with the stabilization of my breathing, and for the first time I see through--or rather on--this window something previously indistinguishable to my clouded eyes: a photograph. In this I see his face; in this, I see my epiphany. As much as I may brood over and contemplate his absence, his very presence is my ultimate impetus, for I am confident that as I gaze upon the world in search of his precious face, he must as well be gazing through his window in hopes of reaching mine.
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This was the first assignment for my Senior Writing Seminar in high school, and I believe the title was the only prompt, though there may have been a random picture of a chick staring out of a window in an attic. My brother's arrest was still fucking with my head at the time, and it colored almost everything that I said and did for several months subsequent. I was rummaging through my room and found my notebook from that class, and it's rather interesting to see this piece, when the fourth anniversary (sounds painfully cheery when put that way...) of Darrell's arrest occurs this July. I still feel the same way when I see pictures of times past, which is why I am fascinated by them and hold them dearer to me than almost anything else in my possession. I'm pretty sure I wrote something about the power of photographs for the annual literary magazine that year, and this piece probably prompted me to do so.
I really miss purposeful writing.