Monday, February 24, 2014

Sometimes it’s our vivid imagination that creates a story. And sometimes the story just presents itself, idly floating like a feather in the wind. It’s so grand a scheme, so beautifully perfect, so majestic in nature that we tend to think it unbelievable. We don’t pen it, afraid to mar it’s beauty and grandeur by a simple mistake in diction, the wrong use of vocabulary, the wrong scene, a chapter to many, a chapter to few and alas it escapes from the presence of reality, from the realm of time and in the end it’s as if it never existed.
The allusive myth, the creative fable, a fairytale shall we say? A beautiful story, surely too beautiful to have really existed in our world and time, so we let children toy with it, we let them believe for as long as their innocence will hold. We do so because they are the only beings capable of believing without question, without seeing, because they have faith, and they instill hope, and they believe in love. They believe in wonderful stories and saved lives.
If only we believed, as blindly as them, if we could turn back the clock and go back to the times we believed in ourselves, in our future, when no one and nothing could bring us down. We thought as all children do that we were special, that we were superheroes sent out to save the day, we were princesses and fairies and knights that would become presidents, and doctors and poets. We believed in magic, because we were magic. And so we were, because we believed it.
We were resilient, the best fights for our cause. We never gave up. We drew masterpieces, and wrote novels and discovered great advances in science  and we did it all by lunchtime. And then one day someone told us we were crazy, that the squiggle on paper was not a Michael Angelo, the piece story was nowhere near Shakespeare and that no whatever was on that dish was not a great discovery. And we let them take our dreams away. We searched out Michael Angelo and saw that no indeed we had not painted a Vatican masterpiece, we read Shakespeare and understood that Macbeth was better and that only Pasteur and Einstein deserved great Nobel Prizes. But we were wrong, because the story is still writing itself. That majestic one we talked about? It’s still there. It is as resilient as our childhoods were.
So take the floating feather, and finish out the story, make it believable, live it out, write it out so it materializes into existence and we can all read it when our skies are grey.
Make us believe in magic again. Because we are magic. I know we are.

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