Magic in its essence, is the simplest thing to understand and yet can never be completely grasped.
When I was a child my mother told me great stories of wizards and witches. They could make rain from dust and heal anything from a broken foot to a fatal wound. But as the rules of storytelling go, they would do this just before the world of dreams came to a crashing end. That is when these unlikely heroes would save us and then they would disappear back into the woods and we would never be able to thank them. They were the greatest heroes. Humble and yet powerful beyond compare.
But, the problem with believing in something is that once you reach that point where you have not witnessed any miracle. And a confirmation of your belief is not validated, it breaks you in most miserable ways. And then even if for a while, you stop. You stop wishing on stars. You stop watching for fairies in the rain. You stop waiting for mystics to save you from your abyss. You just stop.
When you do, everything is cynical. Everything is a taunt. The stars are mockingly bright. The rain, a desperate act of a grieving heaven. And the abyss, well that is where you live now. Along with all the rest. All those who can no longer purely believe that magic exists. You are one of them. You have become what you have pitied.
For a while this seems fitting. You curse yourself to the outskirts of all things magnificent because you were stupid enough in your cynical mind to have once believed in magic. How stupid of you. All reminders of that time are to be discarded and you make sure of it.
But somehow you manage to never throw away that one thing. Maybe your mothers ring, or that old KODAC filmstrip in your closet, or your father’s old brown shoelaces that you can no longer use but you still tie to the foot of your chair. Pretending it has use. Pretending it has no meaning. Pretending it is here to serve a purpose, and when it has, it will be discarded. You make excuses, try to bind it in logic and not in nostalgia.
Years go by and then one day you happen upon that object. You see it peeking out from behind the closet door. At first it makes you stop and look at it. As though demanding some form of explanation. But the sight of it brings back the memory of simpler times. And you throw it back in the closet. Maybe this time it will stay there. And then you try to forget about it.
You go days resisting the call. And then finally one night you wake up in a cold sweat and for some reason you dig it out. You hold it and you feel somehow better. Somehow a set of old leather shoelaces make you feel better. There is a release in this. A release in the knowledge that although you may not have witnessed the magic of great wizards and mystics. You have witnessed the magic in simple things, the things that reach through time and space, closing all borders and pulling you back in from the outskirts of all things magnificent.