I allowed myself for different, increasingly bold thoughts. That I not only had duties but also certain rights. That perhaps there weren’t many others like me; that I was exceptional. It seemed to me that my duty was becoming ever more significant, ever more powerful. That perhaps I was an important figure. A ruler, Mistress of Everything, Queen of the Cosmos.

The sounds grew stronger alongside these thoughts. Intense and beautiful. Vivid. I saw them as colors—bright green and orange, merging into deep violet, eventually exploding in blinding gold. My eyes hurt, but I kept looking as long as I could without losing my sight, and when the pain became unbearable, I turned my gaze away and listened to the sounds instead, intoxicated.

I was happy then. But I could distinctly feel that this happiness was a function of the momentum these thoughts and sensations were gaining. And that this momentum was purposeful, driving toward something beyond myself; that I alone wasn’t enough fuel for it. And when the fuel would run out and the momentum wane, the pain of unfulfillment, of a broken trajectory, of crashing back to the bottom, would be unbearable. That I would die from that pain. Or rather, I wouldn’t die, I remembered—I would lie there, writhing in it forever.

During one of those ascents, I became terrified that one would be my last because eventually, I might not manage to gather enough speed to rise that high again. And that it would be the end. In sudden desperation, I found a way out. It seemed dazzlingly simple and right. I would disguise myself. I would cover up my terrifying face. I would dress differently and leave this place. I would be careful, vigilant, make no mistakes, take no false steps. I knew myself well enough now, I felt. I would work out the details, I thought. The world needed me, and this was the best solution, I decided, smothering all the swirling doubts and unanswered questions.

I transformed. Into a boy. And I emerged from my hiding place.