Magic

GMagic 

Magic is evanescent. The magician must know how to keep the magic alive. I am not a magician. I am just a dreamer with words. I use words to manufacture dreams.  Ask yourself once more who else that you know personally conjures up words as well as I do. So in a way I am a magician with words, besides being an artist. I create beauty and dreams out of thin air, with the help of words. Yes, I create magic and I look at my creations and I smile. That's what I live for: artistic creations. You, the generic you, the you born out of my rich imagination is a handmaiden, a catalyst, and nothing more, sorry to say that. There was a time when you were more than a handmaiden, but that time was gone. I am a magician, a creator, not a devotee. 

While performing on the stage of life, I, the magician and artist of words, need a handmaiden to evoke feelings in order to create my works of art (poems), but she is not indispensable. Without her, I still can create, but the words take longer to arrive. I have to exert more imagination. Similarly, a painter or a sculptor needs a model in order to ease the imagination. Without a model, they can still create, but now they must use their imagination. The model now is in their head, instead of being right in front of them, in flesh and blood. You got the idea? Or should I go back and repeat myself one more time? 

One more thing before I forget: my words are a shining mirror where people see burning, fiery, smoldering images of themselves. Sometimes, however, the images are so bright that their eyes become blind temporarily. In anger, they reach out to the mirror and try to smash it. To their horror, the mirror is made of brass, not glass. The mirror is indestructible though now it's bent and what they see are the distorted images of themselves. The fault is not mine. If they just calmly watch themselves in the mirror, they probably would learn some truths about themselves: maybe they are not pretty, not attractive, not wholesome, not kind-looking as they think they are. My words are an indestructible mirror of little truths, here and there. You, like so many before you, are my little truth from where I learn something about myself, about my true nature and nake-up. I have learned that I am forever vulnerable and that Harriettte was right. In spite of posing a tough, battle-hardened exterior, I am just a babe lost  in the woods, crying for my biological mother long deceased. To understand someone's words, we must take the same amount of time he used in creating them. We must read them word for word, sentence by sentence . Slowly. We also must engage both our mind and our imagination. My words appear to be fast and furious, but in fact they are slow and gentle. They usually come from the heart, not the mind, so they're ambiguous, confusing, and sometimes stupid. But words are the only thing I have to offer you. I have nothing else. Maybe the memories, but they are so few and fleeting. They evoke, bring back a time and a space so far away. And I seriously doubt if you and I can go back in time. You look different now, way past your prime. You only have a few years left and then you go. Then nobody will think of you. Ever. You fancy that they do, but they do not and will not. They have their own lives to live. Maybe I am the only one that do because I am crazy and cannot shake off the few but powerful memories I had with you. That's why I work hard on who I am and how I look, so if by chance we run into each other, maybe, yes, a little maybe, a thought flashes through your mind, if only, if only, if only....