I just saw the first firefly I’ve ever seen in Orlando. In this city of cement and glass, a tiny lamp swirls around my porch against a changing blue sky with fading stars. I’m looking out over the parking lot that has changed little, and thinking of who else has been there before—who made the world seem like a dream, only to make my eyes red when they opened again. I wonder if I only made my own four walls to be trapped within. There has to be something else I’m not seeing.

The firefly glows with it’s own light, but can’t break away from the bigger lamp. Around and around it goes, until they both go out. Sometimes I feel like the only person in the world, only surrounded by fleeting thoughts and visions that almost lead to something real—but not quite. How do I know what is real anymore? I need the hope that someone else can see me, or share these thoughts in my head, but I don’t even know what to look for. I thought I was trying, but I’m not getting anywhere.