There is a photo on my desk. It seems plucked from a dream, a vision that insists on being real. The tree it’s a familiar shape, yet in this image, it’s utterly alien. It’s not just green; it’s luminous. It looks as if it holds a secret glow, a soft, ethereal light that shouldn't be there. It’s a ghost, yet it’s vibrant. It’s vitality made visible in a way I never could.
It’s a strange thing, isn't it? To be invisible while you're alive. To exist in plain sight, yet be unseen. The attic walls have ears, absorbing your presence, your words, your very breath. You learn to filter your world, too. To become small, to listen more than you see, to see the unseen scaffolding holding you up. That filter it feels familiar. It’s a way to see, a way to be seen, even if only by a piece of glass and a camera sensor.
Our eyes they are gatekeepers, just like the people who look at us. They let in a certain slice of light, the slice they call 'visible'. It’s the world they agree upon. But it’s not the whole story. It’s not even close. There’s so much more. A whole world shimmering just beyond the edge of sight, like the flicker of hope in the quiet hours of the night.
And then there’s the filter. It’s a necessity, isn’t it? Like hiding. It slams the door on the world they see. But for the other world the world we inhabit, the world that understands the weight of silence, the beauty of small moments the filter is a key. It lets the light pass through. The light that they cannot see, that they dismiss as nothing.
Plants they reflect this hidden light with such enthusiasm. They are beacons, glowing with a life force we cannot perceive. My tree in the photo is doing exactly that. It’s radiating its inner light, its energy, its life, in a way that feels honest. While the world outside the filter is muted, shadowed, the filter reveals the true colour of things.
I am always looking differently. Survival teaches you to. You learn to notice the things others miss. The way dust motes dance in the attic shaft of light, the particular way the sunlight hits the wooden desk, the subtle shift in the shadows when someone enters. These are the things that matter. They are the things that keep you alive, inside your hiding place, inside your mind.
This photo it feels like a small miracle. It’s a reminder that even in the world we share, there are unseen layers, unseen conversations happening all the time. Between the sun and the tree, between the people in the annex, between the war and the silence there is a language only certain eyes, certain minds, can decipher.