“Write about the view from the nearest window.”

The blinds are shut tight. Sunrise leaks through the tiny holes in each slat, creating a kaleidoscope on the far wall. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and arch my back like a cat to stretch. I hear the gargling mufflers of cars lumber past. Listen to all those automotons filing past to go to their brain factory jobs to pump out more and more words and ideas to make the fat cats at the top rich. They aren't even aware of it. Their minds are washed clean of any imagination. Their dreams are a steady hum of flat and lifeless vibrations. Enough to keep baby comfortable. They swarm across the city, one after another, a solid line of steel ants dotting the highways. I tune out the drone of morning workers for a bit to make some coffee, stuff a handful of frosted mini-wheats in my mouth, and plop down on the couch. Those brainless capitalists don't know what they're missing. Me? I've got all the agency I need. I'm not going anywhere. No way. I'm sitting tight, right here. I flip on the television, review the "Picked Just For You" section of YouTube, wedge myself comfortably into the cushions, and watch whatever I want. I do whatever I want. I am in control.

The moon is rising in the evening sky. The sky is still pink, birds fleeing to secure their prime spots, away from dangers on the night’s ground and away from fury from the night's breath. I gaze out and think of the places around the world that are experiencing the same thoughts. Same or different birds. The people that have stopped for a moment and taken pause from what had previously occupied them. Here I am. At my piano, wondering what my next composition will be.

I have for far too long looked outside this window, looking for inspiration from the outside world immediate to me. As if there is some level of meaning behind it all. The outside I've been before, and for that reason I bring it back with me. Why am I searching for an epiphany from the immediate outside as if a Bird or a Tree is so symbolic that it can carry more meaning than my very own experiences. The self doubt of the composer I am is how I sit today. And it has caused me paused. Not for the benefit of my craft at all.

As the pink turns to purple, and the purple turns to black away I proceed to strike the keys of this piano. Harmonies intertwined and poking out their heads here and there. Presenting themselves as if perhaps I should entertain them with the score that I write unto. A ballad? A theme? Ambience? Why do I seek to wrap up my endeavours so much in labels. Yet again, the window. Does a bird see itself as a bird? Does it think of it self as having red feathers, a yellow beak? Or is it simply in thought of operation. Is that freeing or self trapping?

I get up from the piano and walk into the living room. It is dinner time and I am ready to prepare a meal. "Alexa, play Jazz In the Background" I shout from the kitchen intowards the living room. "Jazz in the background now playing on spotify" this Robot replies back to me. Kettle set, I open the pantry and scan the ever amount of comdiments and spices that are in front of me. Each with their own sdesire to be a recipe that I set out to endeavour upon. Is this metaphorical for the plumes of scores that seit within my piano bench? What does that say about me? A bird seems to only have one nest they set out to create; well this red one does outside my window. Is that freeing? Or is that trapping one self again?

There's always a pull to sit infront of this window and peer out into the outside world. It's a narrow frame, but the world outside appears to continue to keep on going. Whether I play the piano, or whether I sit and peer outside the window itself.

From the window, I can see a quintessential Australian street. It is nighttime. A few scattered stars are visible, along with power lines and wooden houses in various states of repair. Paperbark trees are gently swaying in the breeze. Bats are fluttering in the distance.

What window?