As I walked along the luas line towards Manor street, I saw the shining window. Against the remaining dregs of November daylight it looked like a lit emerald. It contained so much green. Forest green, lime green, unripe lemon green. All there, all resulting from the simple play of a light on wall painted a single shade. A vertical skirting board gave a dramatic bar of white.
The light inside the window is not turned on every day, so the times I find it turned on are a treat. It is the first friendly beacon in my current Dublin neighbourhood, a place that I am only now getting to know.
I like picking out places like the window, and I actively try to do so. It is a forcible act of creating a psychogeography I suppose. A mental sense of place. Whenever I take note of something like the window, I permanently add it to my construct of my neighbourhood. And through gradual accumulations of such things, my mind map of the actual place becomes more vibrant and more enriched. More a part of me.
I was not always like this. I spent long years depressed. And in those years, I'd often walk the harried walk of someone who avoids every pair of eyes they meet. My own eyes trained on the ground, I'd see little beyond my shoes and trampled chewing gum. Sometimes not even that. I'd be so lost in the self-lacerating loops of my depression (depression runs in circles), that I would sometimes not even notice the rain. I never want to live through such days again. As long as I am able to look at things like the window near Manor street, I believe I never will.