by Alexandra Turner Jul 8, 2017
There is something to be said of imagining life as a journey - of picturing our lives as a series of perception, what we see and feel. Our perception is fueled by the sensations emanating from our limited senses. Our world begins and ends by what we allow ourselves to feel. It begins and ends with you. Our worlds are so fragile, so infantile, and always on the precipice of being altered. We are receptors to outside influences, channeling changes in our environment to create our idea of "the world." We take in the "outside" and develop our concept, what we consider the how "the world works" and at the same time, create the possibilities around ourselves. We can limit ourselves, allow our biases and fears to take hold and create a narrow tunnel for us to travel through. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. But we also have the power to expand our world, to open ourselves to the infinite possibilities that are available. Turn that tunnel into an boundless ocean, an unfathomable and obscure forest, a cloudless indigo sky. Our inner landscape begins with the our outer terrain. We start with what we are given. A city can act as the pillar of our cosmos, an undying bioluminescent organism that breathes uneasily in the dark, its brightness masking the color of its surrounding waters. It lives in broken street lights that turned shadows into thin giants walking across an asphalt sky. The organism's visage takes the form of brick rectangular buildings, its skin, neat and long concrete pavement saturated by small moving creatures that travel in orderly lines. It begins with churches that locked their doors on Sundays and ends with larges houses with floor length arched windows that spilled light onto cracked sidewalk. Figures walk quickly by on the other side of bright windows, laughing, chatting, the clink of glass against glass. A woman stares out aimlessly at the red-stone buildings, on these cold windowsills her fingers outstretched out into the humid air. Parking lots with broken bottles, forgotten tires, ripped condoms, and jagged pieces of colorful glass litter the ground like seashells of a private beach. Wandering fireflies floating aimlessly through misplaced patches of grass and the twisted branches thin of trees that glowed sickly in the floodlights of passing cars. We breathe in shadows, while strange shapes laugh under flickering fluorescent lights.