Sometimes it strikes me right to the heart knowing that magic doesn’t exist.
Knowing that there will be no lightning strike, no sudden and unexplainable reason I can read someones thoughts.
It makes me sadder than thinking I’ll go my whole life without my soulmate. All the stories, all the imagination that goes into our mystical worlds. It’s there to inspire us, to help guide us.
What I wouldn’t give for it to be real. A whimsical wish considering that’s how many of the stories begin and then the protagonist later wishes to rescind that thought.
Still, I am reminded in my dreams that even when I was little “Superhero” was what I wanted to be when I grew up.
Dreams are probably as close as I will get in my lifetime but if there is a day when we have evolved or made ourselves extraordinary, I hope we don’t waste it.
I hope in our time we don’t make the road to the extraordinary harder, with our petty struggles and unnecessary hardships.
We are human above all else. Race, gender, love. These may define us but they don’t segregate us.
Maybe the extraordinary quality of our generation will be our love, if we let it.
Slowly, I will turn my limbs to iron. With this fire I will carve myself out of my prison.
If it takes a day, or a decade. I will be released.
I will walk a path across the world that shimmers with hope and determination.
I will create my own strength. I will end my own suffering.
If I falter or if I fall, I will wrench myself up and shrug off my weaknesses.
My heart will be made of fire and ice. Capricious, yet stolid against my foes.
Even if that foe is the reflection I see in the mirror.
I will crack my own facade and reveal the true self I keep hidden.
It will be glorious.
It will be me.
Believing in premonitions is like telling someone the weather man is actually a psychic.
I know that the weather man is just a regular John, reading off a teleprompter, because that’s how life works.
Today though, I feel like I glimpsed a fragment of my future.
It felt like strong déjà vu, like catching sight of something through dirty glass.
You know it’s there but you can’t define the edges.
There is a warmly lit kitchen with chestnut benches that are littered with cooking tit-bits and unopened mail. It feels homey, with the warm smell of fresh coffee pervading the space.
The wide, flat tiles are cold again my bare feat and my sweater is itching my neck while I hurry into the kitchen. I look around for something, sorting through different papers on the bench.
Through a french-style window above the sink I can see the garden, leaves still rimmed with frost. Winter is just beginning, the sun would soon melt the ice and enhance the insistent greenness.
Suddenly, something clutches at my jeans, scrabbling to get my attention. A pudgy boy, bundled in clothes grins up at me, hands sticky with honey and crumbs.
Smiling warmly, I reach down and pick up a wriggly mass of happiness.
This is the scene that plays like a broken record, imprinted in my eyelids.
Whether it happens or not, it’s a nice feeling believing that someday your efforts will all be worth it.