Superpowers, like faith, are an intensely personal matter. They should not be flashy. No one should know about your superpowers. In fact, it's better if they never find out. When people discover you have a superpower, they are all the time wanting you to use it on their behalf. Oh, please, get my kitty out of that tree. Help! Help! He stole my purse! This looks like a job for . . .

And so on and so forth endlessly. Once your superpower becomes public knowledge, you won't get a moment of peace.

You have come to this point of view, this understanding of the way faith and superpowers are the same thing, as a result of your close study of the Danish philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard, both the man himself and his writings. You can make a good case for the proposition that Kierkegaard was actually a superhero.
In the same way that he claimed his Christianity was a deeply personal matter that you could not detect just by looking at him, so, too, his superpower.

And yours.

When people look at you, they should be thinking, okay, here's just some ordinary guy -- a man in a baseball cap and dirty sneakers.

The contrary theory holds you should stand out in a way that throws people off your track -- outlandish facial hair is often suggested. Also yellow rubber flip-flops.

Beware of such advice. Better observers should see you but not notice you.

The perfect superpower has no outward effect on the world whatsoever. The most sophisticated instruments should be unable to detect it.

Only you know you have superpowers.

Like Kierkegaard, you can use your superpower whenever you want.

Say you're waiting for a bus, and it's way late and instead of stewing in your own juices, looking at your watch, sighing in exasperation along with the other people in the rain, you steady your gaze and your breathing, and focus, focus, focus and inwardly blast a beam of pure super energy from your head to your toes.

You should keep your hands in your pockets in case sparks sizzle and pop from your fingertips.

Oh, never mind. There will be no sparks. Your superpower has no outward manifestations whatsoever. Remember? No one knows you have the power. No one knows you're using it right now, even as the bus finally pulls up and you fall in line to get on.

And later when you meet the love of your life for lunch, you mustn't mention your superpower right away. When she asks you what you're thinking, you should say, "Oh, nothing, really." Just shake the rain out of your hair and smile. Depending on how long you've been together, she'll know something's up, but she won't in a million years suspect you're concealing superpowers. This is just between you and the universe. Sure, it's good to be open with the love of your life. It will enrich your relationship to reveal your vulnerabilities. But it would be very foolish to tell her you have superpowers. If things should go terribly wrong at some point in the next few moments, if you should decide it's all over between the two of you, or maybe like Kierkegaard, you decide to devote yourself to philosophy and sacrifice your happiness by forever living without her, then you can tell her. It'll be your out. You'll be Kierkegaard, and she'll be your Regine whom he left for the religious life. When people ask you what in the world you think you're doing? You will say, suffering, of course.

So get up and stand there with your hands on your hips in your superstance. Don't look at her. Look instead out into space at something only someone with superpowers can see and let the cat out of the bag.
She'll throw down her napkin and say, "That's the last straw. Do you hear me? The very last straw!"

And then she'll go away.