The window lies, you know.
I know. It seems so honest. A view out as far as the eye can see, of somewhere outside.
But it lies.
They don’t call that a frame for nothing. The frame surrounds something true, and makes it a lie. That is what frames do.
In most cases, the lie is simple. There is more outside than you can see from the window. At the very least, you can’t see anything concealed by the frame. The view from the window could be entirely fictional, constructed carefully to convince you of its apparent reality. That seascape you can see beyond the garden could be nothing more than a projection on a fancy screen.
With careful placement of furniture, curtains, and shrubs you might never know for sure.
I’m not made.
Nope. I have simply glimpsed some of the truths outside of the frame.
Some have claimed it drove me mad. But I could see as clear as day through a rip in the background.
They patched the rip up quickly, when I had to let it out of my sight while I walked around furniture to get closer to the window for a better look. By the time I got there, the rip was gone, and the orange sky I’d glimpsed was no more.
And yet, I know what I saw. Orange sky. Orange clouds. A rusty, redish ground extending to the horizon, pockmarked and rough but otherwise nearly as flat as a ping pong paddle. The orange side, with the little bumps, of course.
No one believes me.
I don’t blame you.
You are being prudent, likely because believing me would be a little like sticking a fork in your eye.
But yet I claim it. The window lies.