Let’s tell them about how confusing life is right now, about how we don’t know where we are headed, about how we don’t know what this metamorphosis is turning us into. Let’s tell them that we are afraid because we are, because we don’t know who we are losing in the process of becoming who we are becoming, we don’t know if we will lose each other.
Let’s tell them about the fearless ways in which our hearts dare to dream. Let’s tell them how you save up and I sketch elaborate plans to travel across oceans and into quaint Southern French villages. Let’s tell them about starry night dreams and lakes and mountains. Let’s tell them about discovering the world’s greatest pizza, or maybe just trying it everywhere on earth. Let’s tell them about pink gemstones. Let’s tell them we are philanthropists.
Let’s tell them about endless, boundless conversations. Five minutes? Try five hours, babydoll. Let’s tell them about pesky relatives and childhoods lost to a whole bunch of other cities and people, cause we realized that childhoods usually are.
But that’s not it, is it? So was last November. So was January first. Standing five feet away from each other when the sky was ablaze in more ways than one should have been magic, but it wasn’t. It was solitude. It was reflection. It was being, with ourselves, just as we were in that moment. And in that moment, I could swear we were infinite.
Why were you and I strung together in a chain of parallel worlds in a way that we collided only but once? And we moved ahead with the revolution of our own worlds not knowing the trail of forces that we undid when we collided. They hunted me down anyway. And broke my heart a dozen times before I even dreamt of calling them magic, of believing they were enchanted dust left behind by unseen angels that are always guarding us.
I believe it was meant to be, whatever it is. But I don’t think I have the kind of faith in magic that I would like to. It’s pretty, but not as tangible as the willpower of man, not as sturdy as trust and security, not as emancipating as cutthroat honesty, not as definitive as an open conversation, not as empowering as deciding to belong, not as beautiful as reality is painful.
So here we are, we are here anyway, and I’m glad we collided. And even when it’s the magic, I still am.