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I remember eons ago when all was possible with just a wish and a blow of a candle.

When soaking up books on love and magic would make all appear in the next full moon.

When love was soft and unjaded.

I remember flickering candles and soft music in the deepest and darkest moods of the night. Whispers of possibilities, mingling with meeting of souls.

Eyes closed and deep sighs after reading another historical romance filled with damsels in distress and happy ever after's.

I remember furiously writing my thoughts and feelings in a journal as if my life depended on it. As if each word would disappear if I did not rush to tattoo it on those pages.

I remember romantic music that transcended reality and brought me to fantasies where I was the protagonist that had magically learned intricate dance steps and beautiful music.

I closed eyes to my reality and easily stepped into a world where I could delete or add what I wanted. Pause or fast forward when I needed.

Why is it the older you get the harder it is to see these shiny images?

They're rarer. Less detailed. Shorter in duration.

Have I stopped believing in magic or is it just on a long pause again?

Photo by Hadinet Tekie

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