Threading Through the light.

Threading Through the Light

Right now, everything inside my mind is a bright gray—like I’m looking through a dense fog, but not quite. It’s lighter than that. More like a glowing mist that fills my inner vision. And drifting through it are these very thin yellow stringers, floating slowly, like threads carried on a soft breeze.

Emotionally, I’m not sure what it means. I just feel kind of undecided. Quiet. A little bored, maybe. Not unhappy—just still. Like I’m waiting for something to shift, but I don’t know what.

And then there’s this one part—almost like my ceiling. It looks like there’s a bright light behind it, trying hard to shine through. Kind of like the sun pushing against thick clouds. But it’s not quite the sun—it’s something else. It’s hard to explain, but it feels strong. Like the light is really trying to break through and reach me.

At my desk, where my computer and windows are, both of them appear as long, bright whitish-gray rectangles in my inner vision. That’s where the yellow stringers stand out the most—thin and slow-moving, gently weaving through the glowing shapes. It’s like the light is gathering there, quietly alive.

I don’t always know what these sights mean, or why they appear the way they do. But they’re part of my world—quiet, constant, and strangely comforting. Even in stillness, even in silence, I’m still seeing something. And maybe that’s enough for now.

 

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