what it really means
I dearly love light through a window. It’s a simple thing, but it is the darling of my heart. Mine is a pure love, a careless and reckless love, but true.
I know that light doesn’t shine through a window just for me. I know it would shine through the window whether I was there to see it or not. I know that both the light and the window are indifferent to me and my devotion. I know that, but sometimes I convince myself that the light and I have a special relationship, that the window delicately transforms and reshapes the light in ways only I can see.
Here is proof of my folly. Here is light as open and indiscriminate as an Irish bartender, here it is passing through an egalitarian window, available to everyone, entirely accessible. Here it is for you to love, and though I do not believe you can love it with the same constancy and indulgent passion as I do, here it is, opening itself up to you, giving itself to you. And I have to find some nominal solace that even though it is not mine alone, it is giving itself to me as well.
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