Inside Looking Out
I was wandering down an alleyway when I saw a houseplant on a basement windowsill. I had passed it many times before but never noticed it. Now, softly illuminated by the setting sun, I couldn’t look away. Something about it spoke to me. I usually avoid pointing my camera at strangers’ windows, but I made an exception, discreetly snapping a few photos. As I walked home, I thought about what that scene meant. It was a simple composition—neutral colors, a scrawny plant—yet to the sensitive observer, it told a relatable, touching story.
The first thought that struck me was the irony of the plant growing at ground level with a view of the outdoors, yet trapped behind glass like a zoo animal. I pitied its lonely appearance. If it felt anything, perhaps it longed for the other side—the same longing I’ve felt at different points in my life. Every path we choose means forgoing countless others, and those unknown roads can haunt us with what-ifs until we find ourselves in a room of our own making, looking at the world through a single window, imagining what it might look like through another.
The plant doesn’t appear in great shape—half is pale, shedding leaves. It’s pressed against the glass as if trying to break free. Maybe it’s neglected, or maybe it’s on the mend. We often think the grass is greener on the other side, but in this winter photo, the grass outside is just as green and brown as the plant behind the window. That’s often the case in life. We dream up flawless realities, only to find that they don’t always meet our expectations. I was reminded of this while watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time.
I adore older films. The acting is excellent (if sometimes over the top), the pacing is slower, and the stories have depth and beauty. Breakfast at Tiffany’s was no exception, but it was the ending I loved most. Audrey Hepburn’s character, Holly, is always running—reinventing herself in an endless search for success, wealth, and meaning, unaware that she might already have what she’s looking for. In a taxi on her way to the airport, her love interest, Paul, tells her:
"You call yourself a free spirit, a ‘wild thing,’ and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well, baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself... Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself."
Sure, that plant didn’t choose to be in a human’s basement, and it can’t exactly pack up its potting soil and leave. But would it truly be better off if it did? Sometimes the grass is greener on the other side, but many of us fall for the illusion of a different life without realizing how good we have it—or what we risk losing if we choose differently. It isn’t always the situation that needs changing. Sometimes, it’s us.
Ultimately, what matters most is that the plant is alive, soaking up the sunlight.
