Magic exists where rules are absent.

As I age, lose my imagination, and come to reconcile with the reality of the world, dreams fade away and become unreachable—forever locked in my mind as “make belief” now that it becomes clearer and clearer that they are not possible.

No longer are they a possibility, but instead they have come to embrace the very definition of fantasy.

Immature dreams will fade into fantasies.

Fear of the supernatural meant that I believed it was possible. When I was younger, I was inexperienced enough with the world such that today’s fantasies weren’t too improbable. They could have been real. Now, my lack of fear is a testament that I have lost belief, and therefore I will no longer dream—I cannot dream, for all my mind knows it impossible.

The longer you live, the smaller and dimmer your childhood dreams get as they become fantasies—fantasies that will never surface again but except maybe in pen, paper, and in a mind that doubts their very existence with near total confidence. Confidence that they are imaginary—that they are not real—confidence that you will never live to see them, never to believe in them again. So, there is no going back. A logical mind can find reasons other than magic and ghosts. The world has materialized enough that strange dreams will never be.

I am sad. But yet I continue to explore—to dive into the unknown and adventure, out of the hope that maybe, just maybe, I could be proven wrong. And in the meantime, I write to keep them from fading away.

Featured Image: Cover image for Mystic Square