As the darkness enshrouds the room, the cigarette smoke is swept by the fan into a spiral. Fibonacci he thinks, always intrigued by spirals. Every artist attempts to make use of symbology, if only for their own validity He’s attempted it too, pulling in the orbit of time and exploding stars. He hasn’t reached anything. Not yet. Though, in his own words, he still believes in miracles. At an age in which the tooth fairy, the Easter Bunny and Angels have all joined the realm of the Seven Dwarfs, Gepetto and Happily Ever After. There’s still an intrigue, motionless as it may be. On nights, similar to tonight’s he’ll push himself to rise and go stand in the public light, hoping for something to happen. It’s not that nothing ever happens, but that everything that does leaves him mostly disappointed because there was an expectation. Some innate nature posing the question: When does life begin?
It’s not his yearning for a specified moment but the words that constantly sound in his mind Where is the magic? Not some fantastical force that sweeps through existence coloring the shades that mostly show in greys, but rather the magic that lies underneath existence. He can’t bring himself to believe in the simplicity of it all. Perhaps, it’s one of those impossibilities that run akin to human complication, complicating what is revealed completely. But it’s not. The mysteries run rampant, rivers overflowing into the visible, but refusing to make it all known. He once wrote about the chambers of spirit, now, a fading memory. But yet it’s there. In defiance to serendipity and causality, the greater impetus behind human understanding and human connection.
It’s been written about by philosophers, whose time has come and gone, the connecting of two because of the inherent soul or energy that creates manifestation.
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