I am, in many ways, and many instances, a cynic. It’s a combination of life experience and my inner scientist. I am snarky and sarcastic, and sometimes I don’t really think about the words that are coming out of my mouth until it’s too late. But despite all of this, I believe in magic.
Not the type with fairies, wands, or where giant balls of energy can be summoned at will. Not the type that enables you to fly or move inanimate objects with your mind. (Though I do admit that as a child, I attempted to move things with my eyes a la Matilda a few too many times). I believe in magic because there’s no other way to really explain the way I feel when I listen to anything by Elgar or Tchaikovsky or Bach or Bruch.
There’s a reason I live on my own. Yes, it’s amazing to have a tiny corner of the world to call my own, where I can do what I want. But in my case, it’s more of a need than a want. I need to have my own space because I don’t think I could be me without the magical quality that is inherent in the silence of one’s own company.
I wrote that three years ago. It’s been saved in my private posts on here for some reason, and I only re-found it today. I’ve grown immensely in the past three years, but those words still ring true.
I met a guy yesterday who spouted a whole bunch of (in my opinion) bullshit about religion and spirituality. He dismissed myths as folly, and disagreed with me when I said that stories are important because they help us make sense of the world. He dismissed the idea of faith, claiming that it only exists because we’re conditioned from a young age to be afraid of the big bad world. He told me that he thought people of faith were cowards, that my admiration for my parents’ faith was only borne out of the fact that they were my parents, even though I myself am not religious in any way.
It occurred to me later that he was one of those people who think a strict adherence to logic and reason is the only way to make sense of the world. But it’s not. He wasted an hour and a half of my time and made me feel quite annoyed and frustrated that I’d slept with him before all of these words came tumbling out of his mouth, but it convinced me more than ever of the significance of art and spirituality and magic.
Because I believe in magic. It’s what makes me smile, ever so briefly, when a boy I like says something silly or adorable. It’s what makes me cry for no apparent reason when I’m reading a book. It’s what makes me feel at peace when I’m lying on my couch with my cat, listening to the sound of the wind through the trees and the traffic on the road. It’s what makes me stop and look up at the night sky when I’m walking to or from my car in the evenings.
Maybe there are people out there who think this is naive, that I’m setting myself up for failure or disappointment – that someone who is “educated”, with a science degree, no less, shouldn’t hold these sorts of wishy-washy values. But, to be very honest, I feel like life would be much more boring and dull without at least a sprinkle of magic – and I’m not going to let anyone tell me otherwise.