It is quarter to nine. I came up to the terrace of our building wanting to take some pictures of the moon. But the clouds have spoiled my party; I waited for a long time before giving up hope of getting a clear shot tonight. Instead I set my camera on top of the wall and set it to take this shot with a long exposure. Something is better than nothing I thought.
So I sit back on the floor of the terrace and looked up to the sky to see if I can spot a star; no way, I can’t. Sitting alone on the roof top, I look at the illuminated windows in the apartments around me, and drift into thoughts. Each of these windows is witness to a unique story, the story of the occupants of the house. There is so much happening on the inside of each window. But are all the unique stories really different or are they somewhat similar?
The men are back home from work, the children are done with their homework, the women are in the kitchen giving the last touches to tonight’s dinner. They have to hurry or they will miss the opening minutes of the nine o clock soap. The family will get together over dinner. Stories will be exchanged, stories of the past day. Then as the night grows, they will go to sleep make new stories, dream of other ones.
Then morning will arrive with a fresh call of duty. The men and the working women will get dressed say the bye-byes, struggle through the commute to reach work. At the end of the day’s toil, they will come back home in the evening, have dinner, tell stories of the day, make new stories, go to sleep and dream of some more stories. And thus life will go on.
My stream of thoughts is interrupted. I hear my wife calling from downstairs. I look at my watch, its five minutes to nine. Dinner is ready and it is time for our favorite daily soap. Its time to go home.
This post is in response to the Daily post prompt City