You know, I do believe in magic.
I was born and raised in a magic time, in a magic town, among magicians.
Oh, most everybody else didn't realise we lived in that web of magic, connected by silver filaments of chance and circumstance.
But I knew it all along.
When I was twelve years old, the world was my magic lantern, and by its green spirit glow I saw the bast, the present, and into the future.
You probably did it too; you just don't recall it.
See, this is my opinion: We all start out knowing magic.
We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us.
We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand.
But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls.
We get it taught out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out.
We get put on the straight and narrow and told to be responsible.
Told to act our age.
Told to grow up for goodness sake.
And you know why we are told that?
Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wildness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and sad of what they'd allowed to wither in themselves.
After you go so far away from it, though, you can't really get it back.
You have seconds of it.
Just seconds of knowing and remembering.
When people get weepy at movies, it's because in that dark theatre the golden pool of magic is touched, just briefly.
Then they come out into the hard sun of logic and reason again and it dries up, and they're left feeling a little heart-sad and not knowing why.
When a song stirs a memory, when motes of dust turning in a shaft of light takes your attention from the world, when you listen to a train passing on a track at night in the distance and wonder where it might be going, you step beyond who you are and where you are.
For the briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm.
That is what I believe.
Lights & Motion - Fireflies
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