I’ve dabbled in the treacherous inferno trying to find this connection. Mortals are more willing, but they succumb to their humanity while I remain behind. When you stand too close to the fire, you get burnt. I’ve longed for the other side so often my being is a blackened piece of charcoal.
I haven’t mastered walking on wooden floors. There always seems to be that one squeaky board in every home intent on blowing my cover. I haphazardly step on it, causing a noise that might as well be an air horn in this quiet room.
It’s the subconscious thoughts swirling around your brain that don’t really have a place in everyday conversation. You can’t just discuss your personal philosophies or how much you detest raisins so openly. You can’t even really plan for conversations like this. They just kind of pop up unexpectedly. I think that’s why she stops working on her story, because we have an opportunity to unleash our gooey underbellies, and they don’t often see the light of day.