I used to soar. It was not the primitive high-flying of early adolescence, body turning into a cloud, the issue of the inevitable orgasm sprinkling the landscape beneath, just before the ultimate crash, but -- far from it -- a mature steady soaring requiring a regal posture, my body encased in a nano-fabricated gossamer suit of infinite sophistication, every inch a sensor. The direction, altitude, and speed of the flight were controlled by the slightest change in the position of my arms, with the fine-tuning provided by subtle adjustments of my hands and fingers. Sometimes a mere thought would suffice. When I strode out for the first time to acquire altitude, to see farms, hills, and entire pine forests gliding by beneath, I dismissed the wet drifting-cloud dreams as something from the past, no longer beckoning and rewarding, but now remembered with the deep embarrassment of the mature adult, looking back. This now was the real thing: no longer a dream, but a show of actual power channeled by sheer concentration of mind.
Waking up in my bed, I would realize that I was fooled again; that there was yet another layer of reality belying my night-time prowess. However, with time, this layer was becoming increasingly dubious and irrelevant as the frequency and precision of my flights increased.
This is, after all, how I arrived here.
[Keith Haring, in the Graffiti Show, currently on exhibit in the New York City Museum]