Colors inside, Voices Outside.

Tonight, the colors won’t sit still. They’re jumping all over the place, shifting depending on where I am in the house.

When I walk into the bathroom or into my mom’s bedroom, everything fills with a bright gray light. It’s not coming from a lamp or a window—it’s just there, inside my mind, surrounding me like mist. Soft but glowing. Familiar, but unpredictable.

Then I move to my own room or step out onto the front porch, and suddenly the colors change again. This time, it’s light blue in the center, surrounded by darker shades around the edges, like I’m standing in the middle of a spotlight, but it’s not a spotlight anyone else can see. Just me. Just my version of sight.

Right now as I sit with all of this, I see a thick blue line stretching across my mind’s eye. It’s like a stripe—solid and wide. Around it, the edges stay dark, but slow yellow floaters drift in and out, moving almost like they’re swimming in molasses. I don’t know why they come. I don’t know why they go. But I’ve learned to let them.

All of that is happening inside.
Meanwhile, outside, everything is loud and alive.

My dog is barking.
Cars are driving past.
I hear voices just outside my door—people talking, maybe laughing, maybe just passing by.
TVs are going in the distance, the sound rising and falling like waves.

It’s like the world around me is pulsing with energy at the same time my inner world is lighting up in its own way. The outside and the inside are both full tonight—noisy, colorful, active.

I wonder sometimes if these colors are trying to tell me something. Or maybe they’re just being, the same way sound just exists, the way night air moves and dogs bark and people talk.

I don’t have eyes. But that doesn’t mean the world has gone dark.

Sometimes, it feels more lit up than ever.

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