People speak of flying dreams. They speak of being untethered; so free. The dreams where I wake in a happy sweat, wanting nothing so much as to go back to sleep for more, are dreams of surfing. Body surfing. It is a form of freedom, but not the same, I imagine, as flying; it is the freedom of catching whatever waves takes me, a perfect rider on a perfect ride, in a floating balance. The safe shore I know will arrive is merely a launching pad. Shore-landed, I want only to swim out to catch it again.
The thing she feared most was (also) her superpower, and cloaked as her greatest desire. For something she feared, she appeared (disappeared) to bring it onto herself. In black and gray, no baubles nor paint, she faced each day, plain-cast and bare. (Even her inner life had seemed to go dull).
This allowed her to slip into or out of a room. She could show up, witness, slide away unseen, and report back. To what audience, then? Did she want one? Would she project with her back to the lights or only whisper truths from a dark corner?
Shhh. Listen closely.