Windows and Walls

We cut a hole in a wall and we call it a window.

But it is still a wall, a wall of glass, 

Protecting us, enclosing us, separating us from whatever it is that waits outside.

Through the glass we can see and be seen, 

But we cannot touch or be touched.

Through the glass we can hunger and thirst and yearn,

But we cannot be filled, or drink, or be satisfied.

We can dream and let our flights of fancy take us beyond the wall, beyond the glass to worlds we know not and lives we live not.

And through the glass we can love without being hurt.

Or we think we can.

Because we do not know love or hurt or life until we break the glass and we are cut and we bleed and we decide that pain is not only bearable, it is necessary.

Or we wait and watch and dream behind a window,

A hole in a wall filled with glass.

But it is still a wall.