It is hard to describe the feeling of Magic. Like love, it feels like something concrete, something physical. It has the ability to ache and to create joy, to move along your body, ripping at your soul and nourishing you: Magic is akin to love, to desire: it is the stories we tell ourselves about our lives, about who we are and who we were, who we will be.
It is the creation of an existence, of a world, of a self, built from a darkness that is waiting to devour us.
Love, though, is the intricate and aching beauty buried deep inside everything we will ever lose.
A few years ago I met a boy named Joe. Joe was 25 years younger than me, 22 years old.