What do I see when I look outside? Nothing much that captures my interest. It’s been the same for three years. In fact, so little seems to register in my brain that, most of the time, I turn back to a mindless staring contest with my computer. Outside to me is, just that, outside. It isn’t much different from inside, just separated by a glass panel that reached from the roof to the floor. Outside is green and gray, which, in my honest opinion, don’t go together at all; green as in the trees, with their branches hanging over my balcony railing, green as in the straight line of bushes standing so firm…and so artificial; gray, as in the gray concrete paths and walkways, coming together to form a large open plaza; gray like the octagon shaped fountain built in the middle. I remember complaining about how the fountain was “Oh, so loud” and “They keep it on 24/7” and “Why don’t they shut it off?”

Now, the pumps are silent, and men came to coat the bottom a glossy black, making it all the uglier. The remnants of a once filled pool where ducks came to swim and crows came to bathe now lie in a small muddy puddle in the middle of that fountain. So you see why I don’t look outside anymore. There just isn’t anything worth looking at.

I’ll be moving in a few days, so I try to look outside more. It annoys me a little, just a little, that they refuse to turn on fountain anymore. Maybe that fountain did a little more than just décor. Maybe it gave a rhythm to my life; that soft pitter patter that sounded like a lullaby each night I went to sleep. I hope they have the same outside and fountain at my new home.