Window Shopping

window-shopping
The Lighted Window

Okay, so little boys looking into a shop window, that’s what you notice first, right? But look at the man in the back, what do you think he’s thinking, or remembering? You’ll either find this kinda boring or you won’t understand what I’m talking about if you haven’t read the poem. If you don’t like poetry, just skip this post.

So, since I hate analyzing poetry, I’m going to give you my reaction to this poem. I’m going to be frank with you, at first I didn’t like this poem. It was boring. It was weird. Then I was sitting in the car coming home from looking at Christmas lights and realized something. It is true.

We spend our days worrying about our own problems. How am I going to pass a class, how am I going to pay for all these random Christmas presents for people? The narrator of the poem is doing the exact same thing. But, then he stops, he looks in a toy store (or what I’m assuming is a toy store by the description) window, and he’s reminded of his childhood. He sees toys he use to play with, and suddenly he forgets about his problems, but when he turns away, he sets his happy memories aside and goes back to worrying.

How many of us do this? [Raises virtual hand]

During the Christmas season I always find myself worrying about finals. But, as a child I use to worry whether or not I could stay up and catch Santa. When did the season of giving, turn into the season of worrying about grades? Christmas use to fascinate me as a child; one moment there would be a tree, the next it would shine with all the lights, and before I knew it, it would be filled with presents of all shapes and sizes. I couldn’t wait for Christmas. Decorating the tree, wrapping presents with my mom, baking cookies to give to neighbors, caroling, I use to love all this stuff. But when did it all change? Kids look at the world with eyes of wonder, when do we loose that? When do we start looking at the world as an adult? Is it when we’ve been given too many broken promises? When we’ve been fed to many lies? What transforms our thoughts of toys and sugar plum fairies into that of worry and anxiety?

When do we loose the wonder? When do we leave our childhood (or if we’re going by the poem “boyhood”) behind walls of glass, only to be glanced at for a moment and then left behind once more?

 

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