An errant window

The window on the West
of my room was still open
because I loved the storm
that once swept
through it and stayed for years.
I loved the way it sprayed its
unruly rain into my room
and gave the whole place a wash
whenever it was covered with dirt
brought by my shoes.
This window was a very strange
case of late opportunities for
all events around it.
The Sun came through it in
the evening,
just before it dropped dead
far in the horizon. My
days, which generally started
by looking towards the East,
worshiping the first light of the day,
hardly ever looked at this
West side window,
till sometime ago, when I was compelled
to notice it because of the
very strong wind that blew
through it, and which brought some
rains too and flooded the floor
making me slip here and there,
sometimes in broad day light and
being fully in my senses.
So mesmerizing was the wild smell
of this rain and storm, that it
always brought some feelings
of  morning freshness in the
dusk of my life.
The storm has abated now and
I have wiped the floor dry .
But even now, whenever I hear
the whisper of winds blowing
through my room,
I wonder if the storm is coming back
and if I would ever be able
to stand on a wet floor again,
knowing myself fully well
and how vulnerable I am on
a such slippery grounds.
Thoughts as these often
cross my mind and I contemplate
if it would be wise for me to
keep my West window open
in the quest of unknown
storms, or should I, just like
all ultimate natural truths,
conform to the ways
of a perfect life and close this
errant window forever.