We've all had that moment. You can't tell when you look into our eyes, but we have, trust me.
We've "needed a moment alone," or "had to do something," or "taken a quick break at the bathroom." It's a low moment, when it happens, but it's a soul-restorer and power-giver the instant it's over. We feel like we're on the verge of heaving, and more times than not we actually do fill that ratty porcelain throne with things we'd previously ingested.
And for a split second, our entire history dissolves, our image - of which we are well-aware - is nowhere to be found in our consciousness, and our concerns number zero. We exist, almost as another person entirely, in that moment, purely alone and purely at peace. We're wholly absent from care about the opinion of a single other sentient creature, and we exist purely in that tiny haven. We are glad to be alive, not from fear of having been dead, but simply from utmost relief and being so comparatively comfortable, tender from shifting twixt these existential sensations so rapidly.
We flush the toilet, wash our hands, take another swig of whiskey to gauge our level, slug a few pegs worth of water to trim the sails, and place our hand on the doorknob. The transformation happens, from the temporary vessel of random humanity back into whoever we are. Then we're ready. We twist the knob and step through the portal, greeted by compatriots, embarrassingly transparent wannabes, advisors, and select genuine comrades, all refreshing our momentarily forgotten personality, all unaware of the horrors transpired behind an unassuming door.
We're champions once more, immortal for having purged signals of our weakness, gods shedding their mortality.
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