Everyone believes in magic. For some people, money is magic and the more they have, the more their lives feel like a fairytale. For others, it’s lust. They simply can’t summon enough sparks in the world to satisfy their taste for that feeling, the one at the beginning when nothing in the world is the matter.
For me, it’s fireflies among the trees at twilight on a summer night. It’s a ladybug landing on your arm. A wondrous sunset or a surprise rainbow. It’s the things you silently wish for finding you, even in many unobvious forms. Seeing the same numbers everyday on the clock. A heron in the pond by the parking lot. Everything is magic to me, or rather I see that all things have magic in them.
May we never become the people that brush past an angel in the street. I would deem myself beyond resuscitation if I began to rush through life, my eyes only on the horizon, making my way towards something in the distance. I am tested everyday of my life, I am pushed and pushed, my heart often droops low from the weight of all that it carries. But I will know that it’s truly over for me only when I stop finding magic in bullfrogs on the sidewalk and sun showers.