Last night, I looked into a tube-lit house
from my window, I could see
the vivid maniacal colors of the tv,
throwing giant shadows on the walls,
Like a macabre hypnosis ritual in progress;
I could see a lady pacing by the curtains while speaking,
To an unseen someone who did not respond;
Her hands waved as if she was upset
but too tired to move on;
Near the window was a cluttered table-top
filled with long-forgotten knick-knacks,
crumbs from happier times;
How different from my world, I thought:
Full of life and urgency and warmth,
and tomorrows and epiphanies
and overlapping conversations.
Until I saw the sad lady,
looking back into my house from her window.
And my tube-lit house looked just as lonely and cold to her.
We all live in the houses of our minds, I realized,
And in our private histories and inner movies,
which blind us even more than television screens.