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I want to believe that magic is real.

When I was a kid, I read voraciously. I would slip between the pages of books and lose myself for hours and days at a time. I would disappear into these worlds in which I no longer existed and I found so much comfort in that. When I wasn’t reading, I was praying for my world to change. I prayed for cartoons to be real and for my cabbage patch doll to come to life. I begged God for some indication that my world wasn’t just the mundane, ordinary place in which I felt so alien. And to some degree, I don’t think I ever stopped begging.

I kept spontaneously crying today, seemingly out of nowhere over nothing. I was walking my dog earlier and three times in two hours I was stopped dead on the sidewalk, unable to breathe around the weight that had suddenly collapsed my chest, my cheeks suddenly wet with tears that hadn’t been a thought a split second prior. It was like a loved one had died and I had forgotten all day except in those three moments. Only no one has died.

I keep thinking about magic, and how I desperately want to believe that it’s real and what it means if it isn’t. I don’t know anymore if it makes me brave or tragic to continue seeking it. To refuse to give up hope of one day finding it. I don’t know what the better choice is–to grow up already and accept the world of touch, taste, sight and sound, or to keep looking for the world that’s something greater, something more, something that moves me in a way that I’d have no hope of finding words to describe.

I feel like a lamer, fatter version of Peter Pan, and I hate myself almost as much for not growing up as I do for thinking that I should. I kept looking for some way out today. I kept wanting some escape. I thought twice about dying. I felt caged and wild, ready to claw my way out to get free. It didn’t lead me to do anything. It just made me tired. And later tonight, sitting on my sofa, it made me cry. At least this time I know why the tears are spilling. I want out, and there’s no where to go.