singing the blues

The following is a scene set from the perspective of an object. It is posted for an assignment as part of my course Journalism Reimagined.

Up here, you get a bird’s eye view of everything. The green polka-dotted rocking chair, the massive wooden sofa set with its floral cushion covers, and the frequently-changing rack of clothes that stands behind the glass windows in the balcony.

In the day when the sun hangs in the sky, hardly anything stirs in the world below. Each time I fly out from my cosy nest and give a shoutout “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”, the rest stare back, not saying a word. Embarrassed, I shut my windows and retreat quickly into my nest, where the darkness soothes and comforts me. Still, I never give up. Going out and returning swiftly every hour, I say my little hello, hoping to coax a word out of the non-moving objects, wanting to make a friend.

When nighttime falls, things get better. The silver round radio sings for me, and the windchimes move along, clapping with their long steel fingers. If I get bored, I indulge in my favourite activity: clothes-watching.

Almost like clockwork, the scenery on the clothes rack change every few days, sometimes a blanket of all white, other times an abstract splash of colours. Though they wave from their hangars, they never speak. The places they go, the things they do — what tales they could have told me if they do! 

Through the brown window grill, I see rows and rows of flats, nondescript in the day, coming alive with a yellow glow at night. Further away, almost invisible to the eye, cranes sway up and down, always busy dancing to its own tune. And I wonder: what else lie outside these four walls?

As I perch from my two-inch high window and dream of the world beyond, I can only sing:dsc_0088

High overhead, the skylarks wing,
They never rest at home
But just like me, they love to sing,
As o’er the world we roam.

My knapsack on my back.


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