I'll I’ll Tell You What I See Outside My Windowow
Daphne Buter


I have to go somewhere. Anything is better than this place. Where shall I go?

I was in your book and I was in your life. Now I have closed the book and left your life. You didn’t notice it. You were still a character in a story. You are in a story and I was in a story. People who are in a story are sort of nowhere.

I hope you like this story.

I have to leave. Where shall I go? Shall I go outside my window?

My friend B. called me today. She gave me all the instructions. I need to pack a run-bag, she said. I need to put my passport and my personal things in it, some money, my MasterCard...

She said I had to make a CD with my novel and all my writing on it. Next I had to delete all my documents from my PC. She told me I had to hide this run-bag somewhere. I had to leave unexpected. “Just leave with the kids,” she said.

I listened to her sweet voice and thought, I love you for being so fucking naive.
“You sound a lot like James Blonde,” I whispered.

“I’ll call you later and tell you what to do next,” she whispered back. Then she hung up the phone.

Subsequently I did in fact pack a run-bag and hide it somewhere.

I gazed outside my window for some time and tried to understand the lonely birds.

I’ll tell you what I see outside my window. I’ll tell you this because you’ve asked me to. I’ll tell you although you’ve never explained to me why you’ve asked me. Maybe you will someday. If not, it shall keep bothering me now and then, wherever I go. If I go. I really don’t know where and how to go. It is not easy to leave someone who will try to kill you if you leave him.

I try to tell you what I see outside my window. The problem is I don’t see anything outside my window. I do see things, but the things I see are sort of sinister to me. I see a house for elderly people. This is the hardest part.

Inside this accommodation there must be people living. Old people with high-pitched voices. Maybe they fuck themselves at night with trembling hands. I really don’t know because none of them ever goes outside and tells me what they do inside this building, except for one old lady who told me she died there. One day I walked outside my window and this old lady walked there too. She smiled for an unexpected reason and she said, “How are you? You look beautiful today.”

I said, “I’m OK. How are you? You look beautiful too.”

She never stopped talking. I asked her where she lived and she pointed a bony finger to the house for elderly people and she said, “I died there.”

Then I knew she died outside my window.

Her lips were brown like chocolate. She chewed on them all the time. I didn’t ask her if she fucked herself now and then. I didn’t think of it after she said she died some years ago. I never said I didn’t believe her. In fact she looked like she had died some years ago.

I think a dead corpse doesn’t masturbate, but this one walked and talked and ate a lot of chocolate. Now I think I should have asked her if she fucked herself sometimes.

Right now I am trying real hard to leave this place. I am trying to leave this place by writing. If I write I go into the words, the sentences, the paragraphs, the chapters, the stories, the novellas, the inner world of me...

This is the way I try to look outside my window.

I see a sky outside my window. This sky is gloomy for at least eight months a year. If I look outside my window, it scares the hell out of me. This sky is much like a life of someone who doesn’t know how to leave. Like the birds who never leave that sky.

The sky can change a bit. It can become red or blue or gray. It can lose sunlight, snow, frozen rain, or bird shit, but still it is the same bloody sky where it all comes from.

You listen to me now. You ask me questions much like what I see outside my window.

 


“I’ll Tell You What I See Outside My Window” is the answer to the question: “What do you see if you look outside your window?” The metropolis I live in is hideous, but with the beauty of a library. You have to go into the stories to make something of it.

 

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