Monday. The brief, beautiful silence of the snowstorm is a fading memory. Today was all about the aftermath – the city digging itself out with groans and curses. Streets lined with formidable, dirty snowbanks, sidewalks treacherous with refrozen slush and hidden ice patches. The magic has definitely worn off the landscape, replaced by sheer, gritty inconvenience.
Needed coffee, which required navigating the messy streets. It’s almost amusing to watch the elaborate choreography mortals employ to avoid the worst puddles and slick spots. For me, it's simpler. A constant, low-level hum of awareness guides my steps, finding purchase where none seems visible. A subtle manipulation of friction ensures my boots always land securely. The freezing slush seems to almost hesitate, parting just enough that my boots remain clean and dry. It's not about levitation, nothing so crude. Just a quiet conversation with physics, convincing water and ice to be slightly more accommodating in my immediate vicinity. A practical skill honed over many messy winters.
From the warmth of the coffee shop window, I observed the struggle outside. A car spinning its wheels, digging itself deeper into an icy rut. The driver’s frustration was a palpable thing, sharp and metallic in the cold air – easily sensed if you know how to listen beyond mere sound. Down the street, an incessant car horn blared, adding pointless noise to the morning. A gentle nudge, a focused thought towards the driver suggesting the futility, the sheer pointlessness of the noise… and silence. Small, invisible adjustments to the city’s chaotic symphony. No one notices the conductor.
Stolen novel; please report.
Found a discarded newspaper on a damp bench, its headlines intriguing. Holding it, I drew out the moisture with a focused warmth, coaxing the water molecules to release their grip and dissipate like steam, leaving the pages dry and crisp in seconds. A simple transmutation of state. Far more efficient than waiting for it to dry or searching for another copy. Practical magic for a practical world.
Humans expend so much physical and emotional energy battling these mundane obstacles. Shoveling, slipping, fuming. There’s a certain performative camaraderie in the shared struggle, perhaps. My methods are quieter, less about battling the elements, more about subtly aligning them to my needs. Cheating? Perhaps. Or simply efficiency, gained over centuries of practice.
Back in the apartment now, shedding the city's damp chill like a cloak. The coffee I bought hours ago was still perfectly, pleasantly hot in my travel mug, thanks to a similar, sustained warmth charm. A small luxury, but a welcome one. The city will continue its messy thaw tomorrow. And I will continue my quiet navigation through it.
Lyra
