SCRIPTS OF MAGIC

SCRIPTS OF MAGIC

Perhaps the world turns on a tragedy, deeply sensed in the richest tales we tell; a garden lost, a brother murdering a brother, seduction by a king, and the death of an ill-conceived child, breaking the heart of her, who longed to be a mother. A voyage far from home, where terrors reign, and friends are lost, and the hero, now unrecognizable, is never really seen again. A space-shot to the moon, a faulty part, the size of a ballpoint pen, and soon, to ruin, the thing comes crashing down again.

We fly at risk, and garden at our peril. The hopes are always broad, but the way is narrow. Relationships ebb and flow, like the sea the bears us far. A star may beckon brightly, but we cannot follow if the compass bears a scar. It is tragic that we sicken, tragic that we die, tragic that the world we can imagine in our dreams, is more elusive than it seems, tragic that we must forsake the thing we love, tragic that we mirror these in the ways we move. We wear the bruising nobly, on our better days, shining with the rich and frail patina that our living makes. We creatures of such complexity deserve a kind of sympathy. Though the world is soaked and sown with tragic, we work and live with it, and write our simple scripts of magic.

G.M.S