Reality and Perception

[Scene: Late afternoon on a weathered rooftop. The skyline is a collage of crumbling stone and stubborn metal. Pigeons argue in the background. A breeze lifts Nettle’s uneven hair as she leans against the ledge. Tarrow sits on a low stack of bricks, staring out at the horizon as though she’s reading it.]

Nettle:

You ever think about how maybe none of this is actually here? Like, we could be… I don’t know… hallucinations in somebody’s snack break.

Tarrow:

(without looking at her)

If we are, they’re a very patient eater.

Nettle:

Or they’re stuck in line waiting for the vending machine to unjam. And in the meantime—boom—we’re their entire mental vacation.

Tarrow:

That’s assuming their idea of a vacation is… us. Which is an oddly specific tragedy.

Nettle:

Yeah, but think about it—if reality is just perception, then maybe every person is just the house special in someone else’s head. And we don’t even get to pick the seasoning.

Tarrow:

Seasoning.

Nettle:

Yes. You could be someone’s slow-roasted melancholy, and I could be their overly spiced curiosity. Which makes me wonder… who decided pepper means “curious”?

Tarrow:

No one. Which is exactly why you shouldn’t base metaphysics on a spice rack.

(A pause. Nettle watches a pigeon land and immediately regret it.)

Nettle:

Okay, fine, ditch the spice rack. What if the way we think things are is just… the default wallpaper our brains slap up so we don’t freak out?

Tarrow:

You mean perception as a coping mechanism.

Nettle:

Exactly. Like—what if the clouds aren’t clouds? They’re just the universe’s “Do Not Disturb” sign.

Tarrow:

Then who hung the sign?

Nettle:

That’s the part I want to know. Maybe it was the same person who invented the idea that time goes in a straight line.

Tarrow:

You think time’s curved.

Nettle:

Oh no. I think time is drunk. Wanders in and out of rooms, picks up conversations mid-sentence, forgets where it put its keys.

Tarrow:

You’re giving time too much personality.

Nettle:

And you’re giving it too little. I mean, look—if reality is just a bunch of overlapping perceptions, then time is the only thing pretending to referee. And it’s terrible at it.

Tarrow:

Maybe it’s not pretending. Maybe it doesn’t even know we’re here.

(Long pause. The wind clinks an old metal sign against a pole. Nettle squints like she’s listening for a punchline.)

Nettle:

So… we’re just background noise in time’s head?

Tarrow:

Could be.

Nettle:

That’s bleak.

Tarrow:

It’s only bleak if you think background noise isn’t important. Ever been in a completely silent room? It’s horrifying. Your own breathing gets suspicious.

Nettle:

I’ll give you that. Silence feels like the universe checking its watch.

Tarrow:

…And deciding you’re late.

Nettle:

So if we’re the background noise, we’re actually keeping the universe from having a panic attack?

Tarrow:

That’s one way to feel necessary.

Nettle:

Great. Now I’m imagining us as the ambient soundtrack of reality—except you’re a slow cello and I’m a… badly tuned kazoo.

Tarrow:

That tracks.

(A longer silence this time. Both watch a man below try to open a door the wrong way three times before giving up.)

Nettle:

That guy definitely lives in a different reality than we do.

Tarrow:

No—he’s in the same one. He just hasn’t synced his patch updates.

Nettle:

Which means perception isn’t just about what we see, but how quickly our brains run the software. So… there’s a lag?

Tarrow:

And you think you’re running real-time?

Nettle:

No, I think I’m on fast-forward and you’re buffering.

Tarrow:

Maybe that’s why we’re friends. You burn through possibilities; I make sure we actually notice them.

Nettle:

And maybe… that’s the point. Not figuring out if reality’s “real,” but deciding if we like the version we’re getting.

Tarrow:

So you’re saying perception is less about truth, more about preference.

Nettle:

Exactly. Reality’s the menu. Perception is what you actually order.

Tarrow:

Then what happens when the kitchen’s out of what you want?

Nettle:

You get whatever’s left—and pretend it’s what you ordered all along.

Tarrow:

That sounds… sad.

Nettle:

Only if you’re bad at pretending.

(They share a glance, then look back down. The same man now drifts toward another building, hesitates, and eyes a different door. He tries it and it opens. He calmly walks inside.)

Tarrow:

Maybe it’s not about what’s real or how we see it. Maybe it’s just… knowing there’s always another door.

(Before Nettle can respond, the man bursts back out of the new door screaming, arms windmilling. He makes it three frantic strides before catching his own feet and slamming face-first onto the pavement.)

Nettle:

Or… maybe some doors are just nature’s way of thinning the herd.

(Tarrow smirks, almost imperceptibly.)

Tarrow:

And perception… is deciding whether to knock.

(They keep watching. Neither moves to help. Somewhere behind them, the wind shifted, rattling the old sign like it was laughing under its breath.)