Magic

There's something about myths that has always fascinated me. It's maybe that, somewhere deep inside, I've always wanted to believe. I've learned to kill reason and accept that there are some things that we can still not explain. I opened my eyes to Borges, Eliade, Garcia Marquez and Hesse, and followed their trail of magic realism trying to believe, somewhere, at the back of my brain, that I could transform it into magic reality.

But what is really magic? Is it the way my middle left toe smiles when it sees you, even though you never notice it? Or maybe the morning singing me a lullaby. Or is it the way rain sounds different when you're happy or sad? Or maybe magic is hope, because it's there even when it's not.

It's late and I have no idea why I wrote this. Maybe it was for you, or for me, or for noone.