When I was a little girl, I used to lie upside down on the couch. With my feet propped up on the cushioned back and my head hanging down off of the edge so that my long hair trailed across the carpet, I would gaze around at my surroundings and imagine walking across the ceiling.
It was still my house, with all of its mundane details—the magnets on the fridge, the blue and green afghan tossed over the back of my dad’s chair—but inverted, it was as foreign as a moonscape, and I loved to envision myself exploring its strange contours.
Making my way around the light fixtures, I would finally be able to examine the secret treasures in the uppermost kitchen cupboards, and reach the candy jar that was kept high atop the refrigerator. I’d have to be careful walking from room to room, taking care to step over the top of the doorway, like a sailor stepping through a hatch on a submarine. And, of course, I could never, ever go outside, or I’d fall up, up, up into the air and away from everything I knew, never to return.
I’m not sure how long I would usually lay there and daydream like that, but sooner or later the pounding of blood rushing to my head would supersede my fantasy and I would lever myself upright and back into the dimension of predictable gravity and familiar furniture, a slight headache the only cost of my expedition into that other place.
Unfortunately, the price of a new perspective escalates as you age.