It’s been seventeen years since I wiped that window. Ages of dust and spider webs embellish the old glass. And the tears, the tears stain my window and I don’t bother wiping them.
One loses conviction over time. No passion, no dedication, and no possible logic can perpetuate our youth when we fade with life. So we don’t wipe windows. We leave them be.
They are harmless; branches of an eternal river flowing forever, they only choose our eyes as banks and we leave them be.