Some of my memories, my most painful ones, I don't remember the things that were said. But I remember the lighting, I could tell you how that felt, how warm it was, what mood the sun was in that day.
Often, it's the feel of the sky draping over me like an itchy grey blanket. Or the low sun, the long shadows, that make me grow inside. The early, early quiet that felt like anything was possible.
It's not just the sun, it's the big lights too. The streaky streetlights exciting (astigmatism), the big light interrogating, the odd feeling of someone else's spaces being not quite right. I have a lot of lamps.
So it feels like this extra layer on top of what I'm perceiving now. Sometimes like, a real big emotional reminder, and it is so difficult to recognise, the eerie familiarity, and mostly danger. It jumps up on me sometimes, in the park, as I notice my shadow. We had a lot of fights in your house in the dark. I feel it when the seasons change. But I am becoming more aware of it, noticing, communicating.
I have a lot of the same things with music, but I got around it by listening to genres I'd never heard before. But I can't do that with the light. I can't wear sunglasses all the time like I do with earplugs. It's just noticing the overwhelm that comes when the lights suddenly change, or something subconsciously gets unlocked by the feeling of the sun on my skin first thing.
When I'm on mushrooms, I see the light differently, I don't know how to explain it. More vivid, more whole, integrated into everything instead of layered on top. I don't know how to do the words to explain it, I'm so frustrated by my explanations at the moment
I always feel safe in the cinema.