The night flowed quietly, wrapped in its usual familiarity, until the silence was abruptly shattered. The door swung open without warning. It was an acquaintance, invading the refuge uninvited. But what made my body jolt wasn’t the shock of the entry itself, but what he brought along: right there, in the middle of the hallway of my house, he had unfolded a portal.
To what extent do our walls truly protect us from what dwells in the immensity of the mind?
As soon as I crossed the threshold of the bedroom, the air shifted in density, bringing an unexpected freshness. My gaze dropped to the floor and hesitated—the firm hardwood of the living room had completely vanished. In its place, a sheet of incredibly clear, glowing water stretched from end to end. Light reflected off its crystalline surface like an endless mirror, while thin islands of silt floated here and there. It was a domestic swamp, unreal and silent, bathed in a serene, almost magical beauty.
The dogs were already pacing through that surreal landscape. Their paws broke the mirrored reflection of the clear water, dodging the dark stains with the naturalness of someone stepping on a common floor. Absurdity, when it surrounds us, has the unsettling habit of dressing up as normalcy. No one around seemed bothered by the luminous flood.
The Open Hallway and the Silent Visitors
It was then that my gaze shifted to the hallway wall. It had torn open, dissolving into a direct passage leading straight out into the street. The city outside had merged with the private ecosystem inside the house.
Through the fissure, a curious procession began to march inward. They weren’t ordinary birds, but exotic specimens of bizarre plumage, mixed with noisy gulls. Instead of tearing through the sky, they awkwardly waded across the shining floor, scattering into the corners as if they had always belonged to the furniture.
The most disturbing part of the entire scene wasn’t the invasion of the birds or the mutation of the architecture, but the absolute harmony that seemed to hang in the air. Life went on. Everything functioned perfectly within that crystalline chaos, and everyone seemed to accept the new rule of reality without questioning the absurdity of the crossing.
Yet, amidst that collective resignation, a physical detail broke the trance: something brushed against my heels.
It was the little Yorkshires. With their short legs, the cold water was already reaching their bellies, and the stickiness of the silt deeply bothered them. Unlike the other inhabitants of the house, they refused to accept the imposed environment. They approached in search of refuge, rising up on their hind paws in a silent plea to be picked up.
I bent down and gathered them against my chest. With them secure and dry, I stood motionless in the hallway, watching the gulls circle the living room flooded with light and water—a bizarre scene, no doubt, but strangely peaceful.
What keeps us grounded when the world around us decides to turn into a swamp? And more than that: when our own mind alters the path of reality, are we the ones choosing the portals we open, or are they the ones deciding to invade us?
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