All the Yellow Suns

Anybody could be invisible. The real miracle was to be known, to be loved as you were.

I think I tend to have a preference for invisibility. It's probably not my preferred superpower (that would be flight, also a revealing choice) but it's all too often I feel like being able to vanish would be the best option. I wonder what would have happened if I'd had a high school year like Maya's, or even a book like this. Perhaps I'd be a little less avoidant, or perhaps I'd just have more practice at it. The vexing thing with visibility is that I want to be seen, I want the validation just like anyone else. And yet it's agonising; every piece reminds of you of the lack, of your own awareness of your own flaws. It's particularly intolerable when it's coming from a parent, when you're their “whole hearts”. There's no other time when I want more to disappear. And yet the nature of joy is apparently wrapped up in the intolerable - the distinction from pleasure is supposed to be accepting this kind of discomfort, the pressure of becoming known. That's the miracle, if I can let it happen.