Am I one of them?
Superheroes fight in my city, but never in front of me. They all seem to get along so well. Or maybe when I look at them, they stop what they are doing and pretend to be like everybody else.
But I know who they are.
Greatness. I have a knack for spotting it.
Captain Construct frequents the cafe across from my office. I see him sip on an espresso each day, calm and cool. Surely he is combatting something.
A royal blue button-up grips his torso. I grip a navy blue pen and begin to write. The ink surprises me with its blackness. Still, the words manifest.
Captain Construct Issue #1.
He fights for the public good, but he doesn’t do too much of it before the cafe sinks into the ground, leaving a studio apartment in its place.
The studio apartment houses a new hero. Hart sits by a tiny easel, carefully removing its whiteness. Her head continues to dive downwards and jump back up. Soon, it stops jumping. She rests her head on her rainbow easel, and I stare as she sleeps. One cheek points towards the sky, speckled with freckles, God’s paint. I worry the other cheek may not lift off when she needs it to, binding artist and art. I worry she will not save this world, but perhaps that is exactly how she will.
The perfect origin story. Or is it the end?
I try to look away, go back to writing. But I care for Hart. I care for all the heroes that sit outside my office window, my portal into the truths of this city.
My phone notifies me that Dr. Morning is attacking downtown. He has a giant robot and he is blowing up buildings. I know I am safe but the city is not. Hart continues her slumber so I stand up and bang on the glass. Of course, she can’t hear me but everyone in my office can. Glass is the most futile barrier.
It divides, yet reveals. Provides, yet limits.
Space faces no such contradictions. It welcomes, whether welcome or not.
Hart lifts her face and her canvas with it. She is too late.
Unless I write otherwise.
Was I one of them?
Superheroes fought in my city. Well, they fought. And it was in a city. They hovered above me and launched hooks, jabs, and uppercuts all in the name of justice.
Justice is urban and mythical. Where I am, we get the truth. And no one fights for that.
I suppose it was truth that brought the heroes crashing down, and me along with them. Even the truth can be unreliable, of course. Is it arrogant to deny it, or daring? I ponder a return, but to resist truth’s stranglehold is to choke on its certainty.
Creativity is a bubble that trespasses upon the truth, rejecting its dominance and asserting its very own. This space is mine, but it is still damaging. I have lost sight of where I am. Is this the city anymore? Is this my city anymore?
Opportunities present themselves before quickly retreating. Did I not seize them properly? Here, I remain.
Greatness. I have a knack for spotting it. Still, I explore my bubble and come up empty. Even its justice is fading, although perhaps that is just my vision. This city has a destination and will be carried there by its heroes, unsuper and unassuming. I have a destination too, but I missed my stop on a bus ride that only goes one way. I have asked the driver to turn around, but he is untamed.
Never create that which you cannot conquer. My bubble, once free, is now my container. I long for the glass of my office space, but that is a life unlived. My memory is now a sea, time moving upwards and downwards like ripples in the water. I hesitate to call it a power, for it just might be my undoing. People have asked me, and will ask me again, what I have done to deserve this urban interruption.
I’ve met many a hero, I say, but they’ve never met me.