A Cat Walks Past
One of one.
Every day, a cat walks past her window. It's always the same one, coming by the later in the day. She's not sure if it's a stray or if it's a neighbor's cat, since she's never been able to see if it has a collar.
She looks forward to seeing it; she doesn't have much else besides that. But it's bittersweet, as she rather envies the cat. It has the freedom she feels like she'll never have, and probably never will. It can come and go as it pleases. She is not so fortunate.
Every day, the farthest she can ever make it is to that window. She's restricted to that, unable to leave. She has limits she's burdened with, keeping her in. This also leaves her with not much to do, as taking care of this humble little abode of hers only take up so much time.
It's been this way for a while, to the point nothing can hold her attention for too long anymore. She's almost run out of any sort of amusement, especially with the limited selection she has to chose from. She gets done what there is to get done, and is then left with little to do for the rest of the day.
So after awhile, she started starring out the window. It's a limited view, but it's a whole different world, and so much bigger than hers is. Because she doesn't know what is going on, she began making up stories for what she sees.
Take the cat, for example. It could simply be a cat a neighbor let out for the night. It could also be a runaway, searching for its former owner. Or maybe it's hiding from them, afraid of what they'll do to it. On the more fantastic side of things, it could be delivering messages. And it could be that they're love letters, between two people who are kept apart for one reason or another. Or perhaps they're notes between spies, written in some top secret code.
She wonders and wonders about that cat, though not as much lately. It also feels like it's beginning to get old, like everything else seems to be now. So lately she just watches for the cat, to have something to do.
Every day, she sighs, knowing she may never find out about the cat. Where it's from, where it goes. She knows how she may never find out about the rest of world outside her window, either. She is too limited. But then nothing is probably how she imagines it, and she wonders if she even wants to.
She looks forward to seeing it; she doesn't have much else besides that. But it's bittersweet, as she rather envies the cat. It has the freedom she feels like she'll never have, and probably never will. It can come and go as it pleases. She is not so fortunate.
Every day, the farthest she can ever make it is to that window. She's restricted to that, unable to leave. She has limits she's burdened with, keeping her in. This also leaves her with not much to do, as taking care of this humble little abode of hers only take up so much time.
It's been this way for a while, to the point nothing can hold her attention for too long anymore. She's almost run out of any sort of amusement, especially with the limited selection she has to chose from. She gets done what there is to get done, and is then left with little to do for the rest of the day.
So after awhile, she started starring out the window. It's a limited view, but it's a whole different world, and so much bigger than hers is. Because she doesn't know what is going on, she began making up stories for what she sees.
Take the cat, for example. It could simply be a cat a neighbor let out for the night. It could also be a runaway, searching for its former owner. Or maybe it's hiding from them, afraid of what they'll do to it. On the more fantastic side of things, it could be delivering messages. And it could be that they're love letters, between two people who are kept apart for one reason or another. Or perhaps they're notes between spies, written in some top secret code.
She wonders and wonders about that cat, though not as much lately. It also feels like it's beginning to get old, like everything else seems to be now. So lately she just watches for the cat, to have something to do.
Every day, she sighs, knowing she may never find out about the cat. Where it's from, where it goes. She knows how she may never find out about the rest of world outside her window, either. She is too limited. But then nothing is probably how she imagines it, and she wonders if she even wants to.