It’s only pareidolia. That’s what I keep telling myself, but I don’t on a deep level, I’m not accepting the bullshit.
It just so happened that most of the sky was covered by a thick enough blanket of clouds to prevent the sun from being seen.
And it just so happened that the gap that streaked from north to south was over a section of mountain range where surface winds are often diverted up through the cloud layers with predictable frequency.
So of course I see shapes rising in the western sky. So of course, those shapes are lit as if spotlighted from a sun hidden from me. And of course, my imagination sees images in the shapes. Things that don’t exist. Things that aren’t there.
Like the robed woman reaching up towards the light parting the darkness from her.
It’s only pareidolia. It’s only my imagination. I have made this drive so many times, have seen the same sideshows so many times, have avoided the same speed traps so many times, that I could probably drive this route in my sleep. Good thing I’m awake, right?
The light approaches the woman. It is sourced directly above her head. She has lowered her hand and is allowing her robes to slip over her shoulders. The descending light is of such intensity that it is blowing her hair behind her.
Ah… no. That’s not happening. None of the gods I fuck with would throw that kind of a light show. None of the air spirits I get fucked by would bother with such a pedestrian show. Not it. Not me. Not happening.
It’s happening.
The road turns. The spectacle is now in my direct sight. I can’t look at the upcoming mile without also looking at the glimmers of the god angel sun beginning to enflame the edges of the blanket cloud directly over the upturned face of the ecstatic supplicant apparition.
I know how this story is supposed to end. The holy flame appears, and the mortal is consumed with not even the scent of ash to mark that flesh was once there.
A sliver of sun falls below the cloud. The light embraces my face and reveals a longing I thought I had purged from my heart as I bite my tongue before I allow myself to cry out in resurrected pain and fear.
The road turns away, taking my gaze away from the fire that is consuming the fading wisps of what pareidolia told me was a vision seen in spirit.
I don’t lift my gaze from anything but the one hundred yards before me until I reach my destination and park.
So that happened. Nothing happened.
So she rose. No. She wasn’t there.
Today has been a day of strange ideas and stranger tricks of light. Of senseless dreams and assaults of coincidences. Climate change has turned the seasons with new weather patterns. Suspicions reach for confirmation bias to sustain themselves. Pareidolia makes a connection that was never there.
Right?
I know. A cup of hot tea will help. Put me back in this flesh and keep me from wild thoughts. I order a tea latte and look forward to the few minutes I have to wait for it to cool so not to scald my tongue. That will remind me where I am, for sure.
“Careful, it’s hot.”
I pick it up immediately. It’s cold.
Shit.