I’ve been thinking about perception lately and how it shapes our realities. 

My reality is equal parts real and imagined, and it always has been. I live too much in my head, but I don’t know how else to live. The real world distracts me with tiny things like light and sound and shadows and silence, all of which send my imagination soaring. And when I find my way back to Earth, I generally find that reality is not all that great. So off I go again.

Laughter makes me feel like a part of the living. But mostly I want to live a constant high. That didn’t come out right. 

I like to jump out of airplanes and see the whole world through the clouds. I like the sound of air rushing by me and the smell of the air as it forces its way passed my face. The air smells really good up there. Like fresh snow. Like what clean clear cold water tastes like. But better. Up there I’m both alive and living a fantasy. It’s dreaming awake, which I often do anyway except that that dream is real. I want every moment of my life to be like that.

But I’m so selfish about my want of excitement and awe and whimsy that I steal my days away from myself. I steal away what is or what could be to have a microsecond of what I’d rather experience.


I studied physics for a long time, and I still do when I get the chance, because, hmm, for a lot of reasons I guess but a lot because I can put myself in a place of make-believe that is real. Real in theory, anyhow. I can shrink to the size of an electron and wave as particles wiz by. I get to see behind the curtain and connect the macro to the micro, the real as we perceive it to the idea of what’s real, from every frame of reference I know of and some I make up.


I see a dark room and I’m immediately drawn to it. Like a random button on the wall. I touch things to feel the textures. Walk with my hand brushing the wall to feel everything I’m passing up. I can’t walk by a shrub without letting its leaves glide or fumble their way between my fingers.


I like the sounds that come out of the grass and trees at night. I like hearing songbirds at 3 am.

I like the night, especially when the moon is full and covers the earth with a pale blue light, and most especially when the green on the trees can still be seen in that moonlight. 

It doesn’t snow much where I live, and once when I was young, little white flakes fell out of the night sky and covered the ground so completely that midnight looked like daylight. Neighborhood kids spilled out of their homes, and we made snowmen way past bedtime. That we could see each other so clearly was amazing to me. I was transported to some other place—the same place I go still when the moon is bright.

I like how the rising sun hits my retina with a burst of light and makes tiny light rays curve around my eyes when I squint. 

I like when the sun warms my drives while I’m alone in the car.


Today was a terrible day for multiple reasons, and I’m not ready to face another. So I’m avoiding sleep and this white screen is catching the brunt

Ramble ramble.

I wonder how many things you can learn about someone before the details eliminate everyone in the world but someone you know and recognize. I wonder whether you, Reader, if you were someone I know, would recognize me by my ink alone. 

There are simply too many people in the world. The chances that you, Reader, and I, Writer, living within an hour or two of each other is minute at best. It’d be a miracle to live in the same town. Next door? Impossible. I think it’s a funny idea though. 

I’ll save the rest for another night when I long for escape.

Goodnight. I hope it lasts a really long time.


Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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