Reality Can Suck It

I made a discovery today about the world I live in.

I live in a world that is inhabited by tommyknockers, squonks, boggarts and jabberwockeys. I live in a world filled with heroes. Heroes without capes and secret identities. Heroes who go by their given names. Heroes who bleed and cry and die at 65. In my world the only difference between the hero and your average person is the limit of one's imagination. I live in a world where magic exists and is only separated from the daily life by the veil of belief. I believe in rituals that call up ghosts, angels and demons. I believe in curses, wizards, magicians, witches, shamans, trolls and dragons.

This world I live in can be an escape from the monotony of my "real" life. But, recently it has seemed like less of an escape and more of an extension. I have always lived through metaphor. I understand the world in terms of symbols. These symbols are not temporary things that can be used to communicate the fullness of my thought, but real things. Living things. I have friends who are fairies, pucks, and dwarves. I know places that are ballrooms, magical halls, and temples to gods long dead.

Sometimes, I prefer this symbolic world to grey reality. Sometimes I wish that I could share this world with the various archetypes that make up my cast of friends. I tell my stories and spin my tales in an attempt to bring people into this world. I find such meaning, such truth, in this world. Meaning and truth that, when viewed in the fog of reality, becomes mundane and boring. But, it is not mundane, and it is far from boring.

This world of magic and mystery is not fazed by man's illusory control over our surroundings. Cities are vain attempts at keeping the gods at bay and science is the safe, cold religion of the scared and arrogant. I live in the world of Gaiman and Moore. I live in the world of Tolkien and Lewis. I live in a world that is governed by powers beyond comprehension, but not persuasion.

Men are not the end-all, be-all. There is something beyond us and our frivolous self-destruction. Music, literature, drawing, painting, comics, movies, stories, these are the refuge of those who know. The artist, as my AP English teacher said, is constantly reaching for the divine. He sees the magic in the human body and draws it beautifully. She hears the magic in the wind and produces echoes through her guitar. He composes poems that define the recipe of the ether. She feels the pull of neverland and dances with the grace of angels. I tell stories.

The cynic will laugh. The cynics will always laugh. The realists will call us down from our lofty heights and give us something productive to do with our time. Do not listen. We dance with gods, and sing with nymphs. We will have nothing to show for it but scraped knees, bruises, and smiles on our faces. This is the knowledge of oracles. This is the hope of the future.

Magic is everywhere. Mystery is under every leaf and behind every bend. Answers yield only more profound questions. There is no end, there is no stagnation. This world is real, although there is no way to prove it. The only question, what was that? The only answer, magic.


This is the world I discovered that I live in. I think I'll stay.