When I was a kid, I used to sit on my couch facing the wrong direction, then lean back so the top of my head was against the floor. From there, I’d stare at the ceiling. The longer I stared at it, the more the dimensions of the room began to morph: the floor started to become the ceiling, whereas the ceiling seemed like it should be the floor. I imagined being able to walk on this newfound ceiling floor. I would rock my hips, trying to gain enough momentum to thrust my feet up to the ceiling, thinking maybe they would stick. It never worked; I just kept falling off the couch, my torso and limbs piled in a heap on top of my head. I would go at this for hours until it was time to go to school or I was called for dinner or I became mesmerized by the specks on the carpet.
When I was a kid, I used to sit on my couch facing the wrong direction, then lean back so the top of my head was against the floor. From there, I’d stare at the ceiling. The longer I stared at it, the more the dimensions of the room began to morph: the floor started to become the ceiling, whereas the ceiling seemed like it should be the floor. I imagined being able to walk on this newfound ceiling floor. I would rock my hips, trying to gain enough momentum to thrust my feet up to the ceiling, thinking maybe they would stick. It never worked; I just kept falling off the couch, my torso and limbs piled in a heap on top of my head. I would go at this for hours until it was time to go to school or I was called for dinner or I became mesmerized by the specks on the carpet.
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