What you see is not what others see. We inhabit parallel worlds

Host: The museum was empty, its marble floors echoing with soft footsteps and the quiet hum of distant air vents. The great hall was lined with paintings — vast, vibrant worlds suspended in silence. Every brushstroke caught the fading light of dusk seeping through high arched windows, turning color into memory.

In the center of the room, a single bench faced two portraits hung side by side: one a stormy seascape — all fury and motion; the other, a calm field of pale gold and sky. Two perspectives, two worlds, sharing the same frame.

Jack sat at one end of the bench, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the turbulent sea. Jeeny stood beside him, her arms crossed, her gaze lost in the serenity of the golden field. Between them, the quote glowed softly from a nearby placard:

“What you see is not what others see. We inhabit parallel worlds of perception, bounded by our interests and experience. What is obvious to some is invisible to others.” — George Monbiot

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about perception — we call it truth when it’s only reflection. The painting doesn’t change. We do.”

Jack: “Maybe. But there’s something terrifying about that. If everyone sees differently, how can anyone ever agree on what’s real?”

Host: The lights above them flickered slightly, the room dimming to the soft amber of evening. The shadows of the paintings stretched longer, like thoughts still waiting to be understood.

Jeeny: “Maybe reality isn’t meant to be agreed on. Maybe it’s a mosaic — a collection of private truths that only make sense together when we stop trying to prove one of them right.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But politics, science, even love — they depend on shared perception. You can’t build anything stable on subjectivity.”

Jeeny: “And yet, everything we build collapses when we pretend subjectivity doesn’t exist. Monbiot’s saying something simple but radical — that our realities don’t overlap, they just brush against each other. Like these two paintings.”

Jack: “I see violence. You see peace. Same wall, different ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder echoed faintly outside — a sound that seemed to seep into the stillness of the room. Jeeny turned to look at him, her eyes thoughtful.

Jeeny: “It’s not blindness, you know. It’s boundaries. We see what our experiences have trained us to see. You grew up near the sea, didn’t you?”

Jack: “Yeah. Storms were normal to me — sound of the waves, smell of salt. They were wild but alive.”

Jeeny: “And I grew up inland. No oceans. Just fields and stillness. To me, this painting —” she gestured to the calm meadow “—feels like breathing.”

Jack: “So your peace is my chaos, and my storm is your serenity.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox of perception. It’s not that we disagree; it’s that we’re both right — in our own dimensions.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, a delicate tapping against the glass roof. It sounded like conversation — light, rhythmic, uncertain.

Jack: “But doesn’t that make empathy impossible? If we’re trapped in parallel worlds, how do we ever cross over?”

Jeeny: “By listening — not to what someone says, but to what shaped the saying. Empathy is translation, not agreement.”

Jack: “You think people are capable of that?”

Jeeny: “Some. Most aren’t patient enough. We prefer clarity to understanding.”

Jack: “Because clarity feels like control.”

Jeeny: “And understanding feels like surrender.”

Host: She sat beside him now, their reflections overlapping faintly in the polished marble floor. For a moment, it looked as if they existed in both paintings at once — storm and stillness, conflict and calm.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Monbiot meant by ‘parallel worlds’? Not that we’re divided — but that perception is architecture. We build rooms out of memory and emotion, and live inside them without realizing they’re self-constructed.”

Jack: “So, every argument, every misunderstanding — it’s just two rooms with no door.”

Jeeny: “Until someone’s brave enough to build one.”

Host: The rain grew louder, the thunder rolling closer. The flicker of lightning briefly illuminated the paintings — for a heartbeat, the storm and the meadow seemed to merge into one image: beauty born from contrast.

Jack: “You ever wonder if anyone sees the world as it truly is? Without filters?”

Jeeny: “No one can. Perception is the price of consciousness. To see everything is to lose the ability to live in it.”

Jack: “So ignorance isn’t blindness — it’s survival.”

Jeeny: “In a way. But awareness — even partial — that’s compassion. Knowing that what you see isn’t all there is.”

Host: The museum lights dimmed further, the automated night cycle beginning. The soft hum of the closing system echoed through the hall, like a sigh at the end of a long conversation.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When I look at the storm now, I see your field hidden inside it. The calm between the waves.”

Jeeny: “And when I look at the field, I see your storm beyond the horizon.”

Jack: “So perception can shift.”

Jeeny: “Always. That’s what makes dialogue sacred — it moves the boundary of what’s visible.”

Host: She closed her notebook and set it gently on her lap. The rain outside softened again — a rhythm of forgiveness after tension.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people clash so much. Everyone’s convinced their version of the world is the one with sunlight, not realizing the other’s just caught in a different weather.”

Jack: “And yet both stand under the same sky.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The thunder faded into the distance, leaving behind only the whisper of rain and the echo of their words in the marble space. Jack stood, looking once more at the two paintings — the storm and the calm.

Jack: “Maybe Monbiot’s right. What’s obvious to me might be invisible to you. But maybe that’s what makes truth — not absolute, but shared, piece by piece.”

Jeeny: “Truth isn’t a mirror, Jack. It’s a mosaic.”

Jack: “And each tile is someone’s perception.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The world only becomes whole when we learn to see through each other’s eyes.”

Host: She stood beside him, their reflections mingling in the faint glow of the gallery lights. The rain outside slowed to a stop, and the quiet was almost holy — the kind of silence that exists when understanding finally outshines certainty.

And as they left the hall, the two paintings lingered behind them — opposites sharing a wall, both incomplete alone.

George Monbiot’s words echoed softly through the still air —

that reality is a collaboration of perspectives,
that what divides us isn’t truth but visibility,
and that the act of truly seeing
isn’t looking harder —
but learning to see through someone else’s storm.