i walked down the road, the opposite way i usually go when i leave the house, to pick up some cereals at the spar.
today, i noticed the little peculiarites of our street. it is literally a patchwork of pavement, concrete, bricks, chipping paint, and stone walls. the old and the new are uncomfortably shoved together, shoulder against shoulder, looking at each other in grimaces.
every house has its own particular entrance, be them one step, two steps, three steps, no steps; gated, not gated. black, brown, grey, white, blue, pink doors, of different design. windows of different sizes and arrangement, the straight and wide facing the crooked and narrow.
i found myself envying the turquoise wooden door, proudly donning the numbers 4 and 0. the blue wooden gate missing a picket. the tiny rambunctuous front garden with a patch of violet flowers growing from a crack in the knee-high wall. and i stood there in my flipflops, lost in thought, the plastic bag hanging from my hand slightly swinging at its weight.
i didn't stay for long in case the owners would see me and think i was spying on them, when i was actually admiring the chipped, bright paintwork on the doorframe, the simplicity of the window stripped down to basics.