180 deg View

The balcony in which I sit presently on a bean bag, gives me a 180 deg view of the city from the 13th floor. On the right is a railway line and an unfinished overbridge, both parts of which await the other to meet mid-air much like Charulata's climax, on the left a swimming pool and a huge morning-walk garden. In the distance, there are a few tall buildings, but I still get to see the city till as far as the human eye can see given the unclean atmosphere of a city. Up close and right in front is a "society" of row-houses dissected by the pool. The houses, at least 120 of them, look identical uniformed in the same colours and constructed with an engineering of precision and same-ness. The placement and dimensions of every window, every balcony, and every gate is identical to one next to it. It seems to me an idealized army of housing that accommodates the middle-class dream of luxury living, reminding me of collapsing self-sameness of being and nothingness. I sit in a manner befitting of a number thirteen atop a panopticon overseeing this rubble of urban dreams neatly tree-lined and irrigated by lustrous automobiles. The wind here is strong; the view unobstructed by anything. Often strong and big birds fly high enough to be at my eye level. Down there, I see nothing but objects from here, (auto and otherwise)mobile and immobile. It is a peculiar feeling, a unique sensation, another orbit of observing time, another order of reading space.