I’ve been flying. I’ve been on top of the world, like an eagle. All of which meant that when I came crashing into the window, things went a little bit the worse for me. I’m not at rock bottom any more. I’ve flapped and hopped my way back up the stairs, but there’s a fear of even attempting to take flight again.

I do things that remind me I can fly. I walk, I mess around on Minecraft creating beautiful things, I watch the city, I’m still doing improv. But I’m still not daring to fly. If I try, I might go too close to the sun, and lose my wings again.

I’ve made a poor record with writing. It’s not been a good summer for that. But I’m alive, I’m plodding on, and while I’ve gone into hiding, and seen so few of my friends over the last month or so, been so ashamed of my own feelings of weakness, of pain, of fear, I’m alive.

And sometimes a chance encounter is all it takes to realise a little facet of who you are. Bump into a friend, and realise it’s friends that make you human, that make you truly alive. Because despite the dog tired feeling after extended socialization, despite the need to retreat into my own head after any lengthy social situation, in my friends eyes, I see a different person.

Again and again, I see the person I wish I was, and more than that, the person I am. I can still be the eagle. I can still fly. I don’t need to be afraid. The more I hide, the weaker I become, because I’m not just hiding from those who believe in me and trust me, I’m hiding from myself, who I see most clearly in the eyes of people who believe in me.

The eagle is a trope I recognise. It’s a representative of my personal saint, the one I can identify with most, St John the Evangelist. The gospel that soars above the others on an eagle’s wings. Love, hope, beauty. Patron of writers, patron of burn victims. My own personal patron, reminding me that I can fly, that I can live.