The Notion

It is possible, she thought, that the sky was a mirror. Not an actual mirror, of course. A reflection.

It was nothing but air. She smirked and considered the oversimplication – the nothingness! – of the word air. It was all water, with small detritus of earth caught and bound in the floating sea. The sky was more interesting, she had decided, if looked upon as an ocean, with patterns and tides, layers and currents.

Life too big, too small, too strange.

It is stupid to stand in a puddle of water during a storm. Unless, of course, you want to get struck by lightning. In that case, it is a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

Sitting on the porch and smoking, she wonders how it could possibly be explained. It was all so simple. A series of facts that string together to weave a possible truth. Bits of yarn, rugs of rags. That is how it worked. The most straightforward of machines.

What was it? In her brain and in her body, ringing metallic? She was often tired, but her skin and hair were awake. Was she always receiving signals? Did they spell out her dreams in some misread code?

Walking around the house, she turned on the lights. Maybe there will be static. The shadows became walls, the air an intraversable space of tiny waves. It would still, she knew, get thru.

There had been other times that the situation seemed real. At those times, however, she hadn’t fully grasped the enormity and potential of the notion.

The Notion. That was, it had been decided, its new name.

Is there really anything to say?

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