come out of your cave walking on your hands, and see the world hanging upside down

it has been raining for the past few days. a lot. the street has a shallow river flowing down it. the other night, i was looking out the window at the cars in the little circles of street lamp light.

me: i like how the cars look like they're floating on water because of their reflection in the wet street.

my mom: *stares out the window for a while* i dont see it. i guess my mind just is more practical.

we all see the world differently. the lens i look through is sometimes clouded, putting a fictional overlay on reality. everything gets narrated in my head into something beautifully written. people in strange clothes are part of another world i wish i could see into. leaves dont fall off of trees, they float down gently to the ground on the back of a playful wind. animals can talk to each other, and fireflies are fairies. cars float on water.

other times, the lens is scrubbed clean. there are no greys anymore, just blacks and whites. at these times, my mind is void of creativity. it registers what it sees; it does not narrate. leaves dont float to the ground, they fall, not even with the intent of reaching the ground. they fall aimlessly off the trees, the ground is just where they usually end up. people in strange clothes are most likely homeless or psychopaths or both. fireflies are just another variety of a creepy crawly bug. something is beautiful, or it is not, and my mind does nothing to help it along one way or the other.

yesterday, i was walking through the mist/rain trying to explain to someone why i thought it was gorgeous. how the mist on your face is refreshing and that the way the world seems to empty of people as they all run for shelter has a melancholic beauty. how the grey sky forms a perfect backdrop to a hundred different stories, and everything is just so peaceful and pretty. he thought i was psychotic and insisted on going inside with everyone else.

*The Cave - Mumford and Sons