What if reality isn’t fixed, but a spectrum colored by our own beliefs and experiences?

Two friends discover this firsthand when they find sunglasses that reveal people’s “true selves.” But when they see wildly different visions of the same person, they must grapple with a profound question: is there an objective truth, or is everything just a matter of perspective?

This is a very short story that explores the power of perception and the beauty of subjective reality.

The Kaleidoscope Truth

The dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom of “Second Sight,” a forgotten shop crammed between a trendy vegan bakery and a minimalist phone repair store. I coughed, waving away the particles, and wrinkled my nose at the scent of old leather and decay. Liam, ever the optimist, was already sifting through a tray overflowing with tarnished pocket watches.

“Anything interesting?” I asked, more out of habit than genuine expectation. Our “interesting” threshold was set pretty high. We were, after all, the self-proclaimed explorers of the absurd, the adventurers in the mundane.

“Just the usual assortment of broken dreams and forgotten futures,” Liam quipped, holding up a watch with a cracked face. “Unless you’re in the market for a pre-dented past?”

Then I saw it: a velvet-lined box nestled amidst a jumble of mismatched gloves and dusty books. Inside, nestled like jewels, were two identical pairs of sunglasses. They were classic Wayfarer style, but the frames were a peculiar shade of iridescent blue, shifting subtly in the light. A small, handwritten tag, yellowed with age, was attached: “See the world anew.”

A shiver ran down my spine. Too good to be true, probably, just another gimmick preying on the gullibility of tourists. But something about the tag, the way the words were formed in faded ink, hinted at something more.

“Liam,” I said, my voice hushed. “Look at these.”

He abandoned the broken watches and joined me. He picked up one of the pairs, examining it with his characteristic blend of skepticism and fascination. “See the world anew, huh? Sounds like a sales pitch designed to prey on existential angst.” He grinned. “I’m in.”

I laughed and took the other pair. The frames felt strangely warm to the touch. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s probably just tinted glass.”

But as I slipped them on, the world shimmered. Not a literal shimmer, but a subtle shift in perspective, a heightened awareness. The drab interior of the shop suddenly pulsed with hidden energy. The dust motes weren’t just particles of dead skin; they were miniature galaxies, swirling with untold stories. The cracked leather of the old suitcases seemed to whisper forgotten journeys.

“Whoa,” I murmured, removing the glasses and putting them back on. The effect remained. “Something’s definitely happening.”

Liam, who had been fiddling with his pair, suddenly went rigid. His eyes widened behind the lenses. “This is… this is insane.”

We stumbled out of the shop and onto the busy street. The mundane was now extraordinary. People, cars, buildings – everything seemed to vibrate with an unseen energy. It was overwhelming, exhilarating, and slightly terrifying.

Then I saw Mrs. Henderson. Our perpetually-frowning neighbor, a woman who seemed to radiate disapproval with every step. Through the sunglasses, however, she was bathed in a soft, golden light. An aura of warmth and kindness emanated from her, a stark contrast to her usual demeanor.

“Mrs. Henderson… she’s actually really nice,” I blurted out. “Deep down, anyway. She’s got a heart of gold.”

Liam stared at me, his expression a mixture of disbelief and amusement. He took off his glasses, blinked, then put them back on. “Nice? Are you serious? She’s… she’s a general! A hardened strategist. She’s planning our street’s defense against… something. Probably rogue squirrels, excessively loud leaf blowers, or something equally apocalyptic.”

That was the moment things got truly weird.

We spent the next few hours in the park, meticulously observing the unsuspecting citizens of our town. The experience was a dizzying kaleidoscope of conflicting realities. Miss Crowley, a teacher at the local high school, was, in my eyes, a fount of unbridled creativity. Poems swirled around her head like luminous butterflies, stories bloomed from her fingertips, filling the air with unspoken narratives. Liam, however, saw her as a superhero, clad in an invisible suit, her aura crackling with contained power. She was a guardian, a protector, silently watching over the town, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

The butcher, Mr. Grimsby, a man whose gruff exterior masked a lifetime of handling sharp objects and dead animals, was, to me, a gentle soul. He tended to an invisible garden of compassion, nurturing empathy and understanding in the hearts of those he served. Liam, on the other hand, saw him as a master craftsman, meticulously shaping not meat, but destiny itself. Each cut, each slice, each carefully chosen piece was part of a grand design, a cosmic sculpture of sorts.

The more we looked, the more disparate our visions became. The mailman was a frustrated composer to me, his delivery route a symphony of missed opportunities. To Liam, he was a secret agent, decoding messages hidden within the junk mail. The park’s groundskeeper was a melancholic philosopher in my world, pondering the ephemeral nature of existence. Liam saw him as a powerful druid, channeling the ancient energies of the earth.

“They’re broken,” Liam declared, finally, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “There’s absolutely no way Miss Crowley is a superhero! She can barely reach the top shelf without a stepladder.”

“And no way Mrs. Henderson is a general! She’s a baker at heart, hiding under a layer of grumpy,” I countered, equally frustrated. “Mine are working perfectly. Yours are clearly malfunctioning.”

The argument escalated, fueled by exhaustion and the sheer absurdity of the situation. Whose lenses revealed the true essence? How could the same person be so fundamentally different depending on who was looking? We tried everything: swapping glasses, adjusting them, holding them up to the light, desperately seeking some objective truth. But it was futile. The world remained stubbornly subjective, a Rorschach test reflected in the eyes of the beholder.

We were sitting on a park bench, our heads in our hands, when I saw Liam staring intently at a squirrel. It was a perfectly ordinary squirrel, busily burying a nut, but Liam’s face was alight with rapt attention.

“It’s arguing with me,” he said, his voice hushed with awe. “It’s debating the merits of existentialism versus nihilism. And it’s surprisingly well-versed in Kierkegaard.”

That’s when it hit me.

“It’s subjectivism,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “They’re not showing us the absolute truth, Liam. They’re showing us our truth. The truth shaped by our own experiences, our own perceptions, our own hopes and fears.”

Liam stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowed in confusion. “So… the librarian isn’t actually a superhero?”

“Maybe she is to you,” I conceded. “Because that’s what you see in her. You see her potential for greatness, for action, for saving the day. You project your own desire for heroism onto her. I see her creative heart, because that’s what resonates with me. I see her untapped potential for artistic expression.”

The glasses weren’t broken. They were mirrors, reflecting not reality, but the unique landscape of our own minds. They weren’t revealing who people were , but who we believed they could be . The glasses weren’t lenses that allowed us to see “truth”, but catalysts that helped us unearth our own personal “truths”. They forced us to face our own biases, our own assumptions, our own hopes and dreams.

The revelation was unsettling. It challenged everything we thought we knew about reality, about objectivity, about the very nature of truth. If what we saw was merely a reflection of ourselves, then what was real?

We walked home in silence, the bustling street now a canvas of endless possibilities. The world wasn’t any less real, it was simply more… personal. More nuanced. More complicated.

The next few days were a blur of contemplation and experimentation. We revisited the people we had seen through the glasses, trying to reconcile our subjective visions with the mundane reality. We talked to Mrs. Henderson, and while she didn’t reveal any secret plans for neighborhood defense, she did offer us freshly baked cookies and shared a surprisingly poignant story about rescuing a stray cat. We visited Miss Crowley at the high school, and while she didn’t display any superhuman abilities, she did recommend a collection of poetry that resonated deeply within me.

We began to see the traces of our subjective visions in the real world, not as definitive proof, but as hints, suggestions, possibilities. The cookies Mrs. Henderson baked were, in a way, an act of kindness, a small act of heroism in her own quiet way. Miss Crowley’s passion for stories was a testament to the power of imagination, a power that could indeed save the day.

We also started to question our own perceptions, our own biases. What did it say about me that I saw a frustrated composer in the mailman? Was I projecting my own unfulfilled artistic ambitions onto him? What did it say about Liam that he saw a secret agent in the mailman? Was he secretly yearning for a life of adventure and intrigue?

The glasses had become a tool for self-discovery, a lens through which we could examine our own inner landscapes. They were a reminder that perception is a deeply personal and subjective experience, shaped by our individual histories, beliefs, and desires.

The philosophical implications were profound. If truth was subjective, then what was the point of seeking objective knowledge? Was there any such thing as objective reality? Was everything simply a matter of perspective?

We wrestled with these questions late into the night, fueled by copious amounts of coffee and a growing sense of intellectual vertigo. We consulted philosophical texts, argued with online forums, and even tried to engage our philosophy professor in a debate, much to his bewildered amusement.

The more we explored the concept of subjectivism, the more nuanced our understanding became. We realized that it wasn’t about denying the existence of objective reality, but about acknowledging the limitations of our perception. It was about recognizing that our individual experiences shape our understanding of the world, and that there is no single, definitive truth.

It was also about empathy. If we understood that everyone’s perception of reality was unique, then we could be more understanding, more compassionate, more tolerant of different perspectives.

The glasses remained in my drawer, gathering dust. The temptation to peek behind the mask of everyday life was still there, but the lesson had sunk deep. I didn’t need the glasses to see the potential for kindness in Mrs. Henderson, the power of imagination in Miss Crowley, the frustrated artistry in the mailman. I could see it with my own eyes, if I simply looked closely enough.

One afternoon, a few weeks after our adventure in the dusty shop, I found Liam sitting on the park bench, staring intently at a group of children playing. He wasn’t wearing the glasses, but there was a familiar look of rapt attention on his face.

“What do you see?” I asked, sitting down beside him.

He smiled. “I see future astronauts, artists, scientists, activists… They’re all here, just waiting to blossom.”

I smiled back. “I see potential for kindness, compassion, and understanding. They’re all here, just waiting to be nurtured.”

We sat in silence for a moment, watching the children play. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the park. The air was filled with the sound of laughter and the chirping of birds.

“You know,” Liam said, finally, “maybe the truest thing about people isn’t some hidden essence waiting to be discovered, but the infinite ways we see them, the stories we tell ourselves about who they are.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. “And maybe the real magic wasn’t in the glasses, but in the eyes that wear them.”

We left the park as the last rays of sunlight faded, leaving behind a world bathed in the warm glow of possibility. The glasses might have shown us different versions of the truth, but in the end, they had helped us to see the world, and ourselves, in a whole new light. The world was a spectrum, and we were all just trying to find our place within its dazzling, ever-changing hues. The search for truth wasn’t about finding a single, definitive answer, but about embracing the beauty and complexity of the question itself.

Years later, I would sometimes think about the glasses. I never sold them, never even showed them to anyone else. They remained tucked away in my drawer, a silent reminder of that strange and transformative experience.

And sometimes when I looked at someone, a fleeting image would flicker in my mind: a glimpse of the superhero teacher, the gentle butcher, the general neighbor. And I would smile, knowing that even if those visions weren’t “real,” they were real to me. And that was enough. The world, after all, is what we make of it. And sometimes, a little bit of magic is all it takes to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, the potential in the everyday. And that, I realized, was the greatest truth of all. The truest thing about seeing isn’t just the act of looking, but understanding what we’re really seeing, is often just a reflection of ourselves.

See Subjectivism in action here: https://youtube.com/shorts/Gd2PqmbPuzE?si=FHdfOZEENBFOBq3a