Dick Grayson is an acrobat. It is who he is. It's a basic part of his personality, practically part of his DNA. Just as his DNA makes his hair black and his eyes blue, it makes him an acrobat. The flips, the twists, the sensation of flying. It's addictive. It eats the stress away, makes room for the happiness and hope that are ubiquitous in Dick Grayson.
Every day is a challenge to push himself harder, flip higher, twist faster. The ground looms close by, reminding him that he's only human but the adrenaline, the cold bite of air hitting his cheeks as he flips throughout the cold morning practices and late night drills says otherwise.
Because he's invincible, nearly immortal. The sound of wind roaring in his ears as he flips and splits and launches himself up, the feeling of blood rushing everywhere at once, the plunging sensation in his gut as he pulls off a near impossible dive.
It's all reminding him that he's alive, alive in a way that most people will never even come close to experiencing. Being so in touch with his mortality makes it easier to live with the moment. It makes it impossible to not.
Dick Grayson is alive and as long as he is, and probably after, acrobatics is going to be not only his focus, his world, his childhood and his life but also his existence.
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