Illusion

I look through a window at a tree cast in color. I see some complexion of coarse brown bark. I perceive olive and emerald leaves soothing to the soul. The colors are not really there. They are in my mind, an interpretation of light shared by our species and many others, not a part of objective reality. I am deceived, and the colors are no less lovely.

I listen in a room full of people to a cacophony of chatter. I hear conversations about politics, a recent vacation, and a person apologizing for the mess their two-year-old made with his fruit punch. The sounds of the sentences are not what they seem. There are in fact no distinct words, only a tumult of noise my mind imagines with perforated spaces, according to the language I have learned. I am duped, and the sounds are nonetheless intriguing.

I stand on the earth feeling firm and steady. Clouds drift. Branches sway. Cars zip by while I remain still. The stillness is an illusion, a marvelous illusion. Every molecule within me is vibrating, the planet itself rotating, and the galaxy spinning at one hundred thirty miles a second. I am deluded, and I love it.