There is nothing, I repeat, nothing. More boring. Than being a window.

Being a window tends to give one an unfortunately clear perspective on things (no pun intended. As a window, I am, regrettably, devoid of a sense of humour). Oh, what I would’ve given to be frosted or, perhaps more to the point, just like most of the other windows I knew; ignorant and completely unaware the world around me.

But that’s just life, I guess. Full of misery.

Every day I prayed for a cricket ball or a brick or- romantically you might say- a bottle; for a sheet of glass to destroyed by another piece of glass seems... ironic to me, somewhat... I used the word ‘prayed’. Pray to what? God? The God of windows? The God of, say, miscellaneous glass based appliances? Does such an entity even exist? The more I thought (and still think) about it- and I did so a lot, my life being the thrill ride it was- probably not.

But I prayed anyway. It passed the time.

Life seen through the eyes (not that I have any) of a window; I bet you’re depressed already. Frankly, even by the time that what happened had happened, I’d long since passed that stage. I didn’t feel anything. Windows aren’t exactly renowned for their complex nervous systems.

I guess, maybe, it wouldn’t have been so bad if I was, for example, a stained glass window complete with that insufferably smug, party atmosphere they constantly radiate. It wouldn’t have even been so bad if I was fitted in an interesting room like say... a psychiatrist’s office! Yes, that would’ve been much more preferable. Granted, I still would’ve been fixed into some grumpy wall (take it from me. The vast majority of walls are unsociable in the extreme, and what conversations they have are utterly tedious). But at least I would’ve been able to listen to other people’s troubles. “You think you’ve got problems,” I then could’ve said. “I’m a bloody window! Your problems don’t even compare to mine!”

...Of course, windows lack mouths and the necessary vocal cords, and hence cannot speak a single word of English, Spanish, or any other language; so much for my plan.

I have now written almost four hundred words about the reality of being a window, and in my own opinion that’s four hundred words too much. You must be so miserable by now. If by chance you’re not, I fully recommend you stop reading this very instant, for life being the marvel it is, things are about to get worse.

My prayers were answered.

Those brief seconds before the bottle sailed right through me were the only in my life when I experienced something that even came remotely close to being a feeling that resembled, oh, what’s the word? Happiness. The moment had finally arrived where I would quit this world and head into a nothingness so complete I bet it hurts your mind just to think about it. And the final icing on the cake (a figurative cake. I have never had need for cake) was that the bottle was of Vintage wine, Tesco’s finest, no less. I count that as an honour, albeit, of the smallest, most pitiful sort imaginable.

But of course, with the luck of one unfortunate enough to enter this world as a window of all things, the result of my smashing was grimmer than I could’ve imagined. How depressingly predictable.

I’m still a window.

The difference is that now I lie upon the ground in pieces, yet still remain inexplicably conscious. I don’t even get to talk to the walls anymore, and as it was in terms on entertainment, that scrapping the metaphorical bottom of the barrel.

And it’s only now I realise that this barely even counts as a story, that I’ve actually, in fact, just wasted a significant amount of your time. Indeed, this story has raised more questions than it’s answered. For example, how is it that a window with no eyes, sense of humour, mouth, vocal cords, arms, legs, mind, body, feet, hands and fingers was able to open a word processing program and type this story up in the first place?

The answer, I assure you, is thoroughly depressing.