The balcony

I can imagine it now.

 I’d rent out a quaint one-bedroom apartment for a handful of months and it wouldn’t be located on the ground floor. It would be a few stories up; the third floor would be ideal. High enough to have an aerial view on those that walked through the dainty side streets of the city and not too high where I may feel disconnected. I’d see the local residents below me taking gentle sips of their freshly ground coffee. Coffee that had not yet cooled down enough to enjoy properly. The apartment’s defining feature would be a compact, yet wholesome, balcony that lay on the outskirts of the mid sized living room. The doors of this balcony would remain open all day and night, embracing the wind and passing noise like a sibling with too much history to neglect.

I’d spend most of my time sitting out here.

Indulging in daybreak cups of rejuvenating tea and twilight glasses of optimistically sedating red wine. Both on the same table, at different times. Time itself was a human construct which this balcony was struggling to come to terms with. The internet in the apartment would work well, but it would struggle in its attempt at full connection out here on the balcony. I liked it that way. I felt a full connection to life instead. This balcony was made for getting lost in prophetic novels that were destined to be read decades ago. A space where you could allow yourself to stumble into life’s greatest pleasure; thinking in its truest form.

 On some days, I would open the space for one other, because in sharing a space we share a moment. And in sharing a moment we open ourselves up to the potential of transcending into love. Notice how I didn’t mention which city this apartment was in. It could easily be anywhere. The gothic quarter of Barcelona or the gentle outskirts of Nairobi. It did not matter.

 What really matters is how the balcony made you feel. It imparted a sense of freedom that one searched for their whole life.

As if anything was not only possible but impendingly probable.