It's true... I am only aware of two, but after years of awareness, I afford them certainties. There may be more and awareness of their presence remains elusive given their method of arrival. Those two I confidently embody are tethered by a very tenuous thread, that perhaps given it's nature, masks many more underwhelming abilities. Like an undulating cloud of starling, my brain sweeps with intrusive thoughts, often plucked from darkness - the whispers of god; the splintering of an unwell host's mind; the musings of a discontent imp; slipping briefly to my consciousness - I can do things. Spectacular, no. Controlled, no. Impressive, maybe - if your cynicism is so paper-thin to allow such fractures in your rationale. Youth left my notions unrestrained; perpetuated on the limitless strangeness that a comic-fueled education afforded. Matured and goth-adled; I took resolve that my bargainings against those that kept my vices and desires behind paywalls left me with unfamiliar scars. Now, as a shattered marionette, I recognize these things as an affect of sickness. Not only my own, but an ancestral wound; the pieces removed from some soul that almost certainly did not live locked away in a 1200 sq ft coffin and instead was challenged daily for not masking their failures; that being the only estate they bequeathed to those further down the twisted branches of their tree. Societally - compensating with our best tools, choosing the paths of least resistance and seemingly acceptable avenues of camouflage. I wonder if they found other skills in our arsenal of mediocrity?
I won't stretch this out. The first power I became aware of... affecting electric light. In particular, street lights. I forget which friend recognized this uncanny phenomenon in me, but I do believe it was the same person that coined it as "sliding"; suggesting this was something they were already familiar with. A handful of people have been with me when this manifests itself, and once started, it cascades for a good while, and if I slide a light, it remains affected by me indefinitely until it is replaced. Perhaps I should have saved this one for last because it is far more impressive than the last.
As a person who has always been a pen to paper kind of soul, I have my favorite types of pens. Very fine point, fluid tip. When I write, especially when I am trying to carve from my ribs something of significance - I will explode the pen. My mind, it's built this lore around these efforts... that deal I made; staining my words, blotting out the truths I managed to pry from it's grasp. The devil's word only my lips can whisper, perhaps.
Again - please recall, these are not controlled events. I could not busk a living on my perfected efforts of exploding pens and sliding lights. These arrive as a thought ripping as if lightning across a moment, and it happens and is gone. The light slides, my tips stain with ink - into darkness; words muted into black. Yes, I have powers... and they seek to return me to nothing.
