For so long I have lamented my desperate need for isolation. My attempts at friendship have failed and failed and failed once more. And with these failures, I question where the magic went? Where did it go? That longing for a person I thought I once was, when I could see the special things. I could smell the air, let my lungs fill up with sparkles till they were so full I couldn't take it anymore. When I used to feel comfortable in my own skin, out there, out there. And I don't know how to fix it. I don't know if I'm just done, and this sack of flesh covered bones is still here but empty and lost. But it's slowly, very very slowly, occurring to me that no, I am not that person who I thought I once was. In fact, I was never that person at all. And every ounce of magic in this world that I ever felt, that I ever thought was mine and mine alone, that magic was of my own creation and not mere happenstance. It wasn't because I was happier then, or healthier then, or younger then, or anything else. It's simply a matter of turning the dial and listening very closely beyond the static, and making that magic for myself once more. One foot in front of the other, one spark to create the flame, laying the first brick on the foundation and building upon it. Tout semble tellement évident maintenant...
