At certain moments there seems to be an extreme widening of the macro and micro-spaces around me. Currently there is a canyon between me and my arms, outstretched yet resting on my chair, typing in my peripheral vision. My hands are miles away. I am an asteroid spinning through space.
This feeling has inconsistently persisted in my perception over the last 22 years, the first of which happening when I had a massive bacterial infection at age 6. I spent a week in bed with a 105 degree fever. This was my first peak of consciousness. I became hyper aware of myself, and of my surroundings. In a way, my body felt like it was going through labor, my consciousness being pushed further and further out of my body. I felt like I was the size of an ant, running through the swaying hair-fields of my head. I looked at the walls to the side of my bed, covered in a wallpaper that had green, blue, yellow, and red stripes. I looked at them until they wavered, vibrated, blended, and became a three dimensional space like a Magic Eye book. I had fever dreams that my father was Jafar from Aladdin. I had just watched Return of Jafar, and my dad was coming into my bedroom every hour and a half to put an icepack directly on my back to cool me off. I thought he was evil. 
  After that week, the sickness ebbed, the fever broke, and I entered the next phase of my life. Yet something remained, and that was this occasional ability to see things in a strange third person perspective. It happens when I'm focused on one thing while doing another. A story about the past, some unlocked or long since forgotten piece of nostalgia. A memory that resonates as strongly as it did the day it happened. The past is a haze of fuzz and crisp shapes. Some of it is remembered exactly. Some key items have been scanned so many times that the nuances have been lost, like a needle over an exhausted vinyl record. The feeling exists, but the intricacies have long since eroded away from too many rotations. 
And here I am, relishing in a protected and rarely-exposed perception. My fingers traverse familiar grooves, the most favorite of which are distinguished by more natural oil than others. Punched by long sinewy tendons directing bone, pulling and contracting across a cavern of space and time, weaving the past with the present.