One day she just picked up a pen and started writing. She didn’t know where it was going and when it was going to end. But she knew straight away this was not the right pen. It could only take her so far. How she was going to gather the strength to find another pen was another question altogether. But something was clear, this was not the pen.

She had managed to come down the stairs hoping to find a land where pens would write only to realise a few things on the way. She was much bigger than she thought. Like a snake shedding its own skin, she felt she may be expanding. Like gum trees getting ready for summer, cracking through their old barks, there was something underneath ready to be revealed.

There were many options of pens ahead, each like a version of the story and she knew there could be a few.

Now that she was looking at her previous writing, she realised the words looked right on paper, even though they hadn’t felt right. The ink looked better on the outside than on the outside; which she thought was quite fitting.

She was still struggling to write but she now could see the sparkles in the dust.

As if time had stopped momentarily, not caught up in the everyday hustle, she could see the light. She was able to look at her life with a completely different set of eyes. Despite all the noise, she was able to appreciate that beauty is, in what already is.

The moment of clarity felt like the cristallisation of what it means to look at the same thing and look at it again completely differently, with a new set of eyes, every time.

The point isn’t what you are seeing, because you and the other are seeing something completely different. The point is that the perspectives are entirely distinct, and each valid in their own right. In exactly the same way, you, yourself, could be allowed to look at the same thing differently.

You keep looking and you realise it keeps on changing, but that’s not the point either. The point is that, it is just. It is something now and it is also changing.

There is just as little or as much depth depending on how we decide to look at it. It really just is a choice of how we look at it. There is no other way to put it. It’s just how we look at it. It’s really magical how simple it is. You just have to look at it again. And suddenly it all changes.

What if we’re never able to see it the same way? What is seeing in mono or stereo literally or figuratively differ in the dimensions we’re able to experience.

What is the 2D definition of beautiful? Because it is a different perspective altogether. It would be a pity if that simpler, in a way, we are tempted to say ‘more beautiful’ perspective was misunderstood. Ultimately, it is just what it is.

But what if the beauty was in its depth?

Now he asks what dimensions are.

She ponders on this for a while.

He keeps on repeating there is just distance and direction.

They discuss dimensions for a while.

She daydreams and thinks this is as simple as staring at a painting. As simple and profound as it too.

She wonders how many of our words are packages of many other words and day dreaming moments put together start to end, when does is stop when does it end.

It is just infinite. The amount of worlds, the amount of scenarios, the amount of ways to look at it.

Words as packages, as tips of all the icebergs going on all at once. You look at the same painting from a different angle, suddenly you have no choice, as if you had run out of ink and could not write with this pen any longer. But you don’t need to wait until you run out of ink, you can also see if that’s not the pen you need now. Well, clearly now you can sense that was not the one. But why choose it then? Or maybe it is all in the process of changing pens and that we should not fight it. Like snakes outgrowing our own skin.

Maybe that’s how we explain dimensions, without words for it but rather as a change in coloured and textured pen.

I wonder if I could experience it as a changing pen.

Maybe it’s impossible or maybe it’s exactly what we are, and most likely any combination in between.

She suddenly becomes aware of the danger of staying in 2D for too long. You mustn’t lose sight of the birds, the sounds, and the depth because you are focusing on writing. Let go and experience it again. From all sides. Not that of the narrator of your life. She lets go of her writing and experiences again.

The irony.

Maybe it’s because she knew all along it might stop her from living.

An endless circle.

She realises she must write to know and she cannot really know when she is writing.

Is that because she knew that all along that she didn’t start writing?  Impossible to know because she’s obviously just found out.

Around and around we go.

Moments later, her attention is brought to something which was there all along, and she can only see now, as a timely reminder of the varied perspectives we all live through. As if the fabric of reality was opening up before her eyes.

He asks: why do we like things?

Two distinct parallel universes open.

Have you ever noticed how ‘O-PEN’ is literally a circle adjacent to a PEN? So tell me now this whole writing thing isn’t just us ‘O-PEN-ing’ endless universes as our stories unfold??

She hears: “on a fundamental level, why do we like things?”; so she starts to deeply think about it. When actually, he meant “literally why do I chose lasagna rather than chili pasta?”.

She realises they were not talking about the same thing at all. He asks what is the difference of it all?

Again she thinks deeply when he just meant ‘what difference does it make’?

The question that terrifies her is do all these parallel universes carry on happening all the time?

This feels terribly lonely.

The more she thinks about words and how much they are misheard and misinterpreted, the more she feels lonely and misunderstood.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t write after all.