Window On High

To my right, I do not have a wall as such, but a floor to ceiling window. The dusty blinds were once white. Of that I am sure, but as the dullish day tries to show itself through what it can, they pale to an insignificant grey.

From here on the fifth floor I can see apartments for miles. Built with the least amount of imagination and effort in mind. Their scorned red bricks moping above the financial heart of Dublin.

Some are decorated with masts and dishes. Realising the depressiveness of such an area, calling upon images of battles and dramas from far off places.

Above is a blanket of clouds. Daunting, threatening, waiting to tear at the seams and fall on all below.

I can see the spire of church to my far right, and way, way off I can just make out the corner of Croke Park, as it looms over the people of Dublin 7, reminding them everyday of where we came from. And that memory tells them also, how we got here.

But the people, I cannot see the people from up here. It is very lonely, and even a little bit sad.

The clouds oblige and start to cry; drop-by-drop they hit the balcony and smother the ground slowly.

The curtains and blinds on the apartments start to close, as everyone seems to turn away at once from the rainy day.

I turn back to my desk. Type this and that. Waiting for the days work to be over.