Reflections

While wandering with my camera around downtown Fort Worth, a city of quiet charm and gentle contrasts, I found this building — a symphony of reflections in glass and steel. The architecture rippled softly, bending reality into dreamlike patterns, as if the structure itself were dissolving gently into the sky. Lines wavered, windows danced, and trees reached out from their earthly roots, brushing fingertips with clouds.

In Fort Worth that day, I learned again to see the familiar as wondrous.
Not because the city changed, but because I did.

I stood still, momentarily unmoored, watching as hard edges liquefied into watercolor contours. It was a quiet alchemy — solidity made fluid, permanence made ephemeral. The building didn’t merely reflect its surroundings; it absorbed them, transformed them, and returned them altered, softened, dreamlike. This was beauty seen through a prism, a refracted truth that whispered rather than declared.

What struck me most wasn’t the novelty of the visual trick, but the way it made me feel — weightless, contemplative, oddly hopeful. In a world often obsessed with sharp lines and clear answers, this structure reminded me that ambiguity, too, has its grace. That clarity can sometimes be overrated. That distortion can reveal, not obscure.

In Fort Worth that day, I learned again to see the familiar as wondrous. Not because the city changed, but because I did. Because I allowed myself to drift, even for a moment, into abstraction — to see not just what was there, but what might be.

Sometimes, the clearest truths don’t arrive fully formed. They ripple toward you, gently, in soft waves of steel and sky.

What everyday surface surprised you once you really looked at it?

— Lawrence

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