Luna

People say I drift off, but I don’t. I just take the scenic route through thoughts. You tell me you lost your keys; I picture them in a bistro for lost objects, sipping espresso with a missing sock. Reality is still there; I just prefer to approach it sideways.

My parents encouraged this. Dad collected broken watches “because even time needs a break,” and Mum read tarot cards to the cat. Dinner wasn’t a meal; it was improv theatre with cutlery. I learned that if you stare at a mundane pattern long enough, it starts to wink at you.

In school, I wrote an essay arguing that dreams should be tax-deductible because we’re generating content for the universe. The teacher gave me a C+ and a brochure for a mindfulness club. Both are framed on my wall. They remind me that imagination is a form of polite rebellion.

At my last office job, the boss asked for “blue-sky thinking.” I taped cloud cutouts to the ceiling tiles. It looked magical until the AC turned on and created an indoor blizzard. HR called it a distraction. I called it atmospheric enrichment. I also doodle in meetings — thoughts may form a dragon, a tree, or a cat. If someone monologues long enough, they get their own nebula - a better backdrop than they deserve.

I don’t float away from reality; I orbit it looking for an interesting angle. A boring sentence can sparkle if you tilt it into the light. That’s my trick.

I won’t rewrite your world, but I can shift it a few degrees—just enough for you to spot the magic hiding in the corners.