I'll flow into magic, where there's magic to be found but I'm not sure what that even means today.
I know that magic's all around, I've experienced life that way
but right now all I see is my hand moving in a peculiarly uniform motion
that somehow I understand,
somehow I am able to control
that somehow translates into black squiggles on a lined page,
that was once part of a tree,
by way of which I am able to convey meaning to others.
There is no magic here,
simply a process of creation and communication that has taken millennia to perfect,
that is now mastered by 5-year-olds.
That now flows from fingertips, to pen, to page, with barely even a discernible intervention from my brain.
Just my handwriting, from which I can be personally identified by those who know me.
Words that will endure because I have chosen to write them in the notebook that I like,
because it has an arrangement of colours and shapes on the cover that I recognise to be a picture of a tree.
That evokes in me a wealth of knowledge and memories of those beings,
so prevalent and unassuming as to be ignored by many people.
Taken for granted,
barely remarked upon,
as they silently communicate and support each other via complex network of roots beneath the ground.
There is no magic here. No, this moment is extra ordinary.
Image by @visothkakvei