Where have all the stories gone?

When I was a little girl I'd stare at houses just like this and make up a life inside. I'd decorate the rooms, I'd populate the family, every detail down to the coat of paint on the dining room walls. Now, I look at houses like this and I see how much it costs, the taxes, the renovations, the practicalities. Sometimes, I squint my eyes hoping to make the details disappear and see even the smallest semblance of a story. 

I hope to see a woman peeking from the window having tea and wonder what she's thinking of. I long to see a man walking his dog and feel curiosity about his thoughts. I don't remember when the stories stopped coming and the realities of adulthood replaced them. I don't know how staring at houses and daydreaming turned turned into comparisons. 

I've been peeking out windows now trying to remember what it was like to only see possibility. It's a useful exercise for the imagination and spirit.