Who Stole My Magic?

I’ve concluded that I have lived the life I sought to have, the life that is now burning my skin and breaking my every pore. The life I thought I would never have, the one with magic like in my dreams.

I am in love with too many things and that is what keeps me going. It could be good; it could be bad for me. Either way I chose this and I must face whatever lies ahead. Come what may – my mantra. My mother once told me, “you can never find yourself in someone else’s imagery of you, despite the fact that you’ve spent your entire life with them, what you know of who you are is what only matters.” It stuck to me like a fork on my throat.

As I grew up I fought for what I always wanted to have - freedom to know. I’ve always wanted to know how things happen and how they do it. I was never a keen observer like the talent my siblings have. But I was always interested in things, so many things as a matter of fact. Though I was never really hungry to try stuff but like God’s will my path always cross their way, then the hunger begins. Magic is in me! I admit that I get influenced easily. Negative and positive feedbacks never mattered to me until I get a stone thrown at my head then it starts to bleed like hell and I am shaken out of my reverie. The magic is gone!

And to hell indeed I go. With my hunger I go down with disappointment, with my frustrations, with my anger, my hatred and my sorrow committing crimes of killing my own happiness and the happiness of others around me, loosing what I really wanted to have, loosing my own ambitions, loosing my magic. I’ve been a murderer of someone else’s dreams, someone else’s love, someone else’s scene, someone else’s courage, someone else’s future, someone’s ambitions, and someone else’s magic. And so I am condemned to loose, loose the people I’ve been with. Steal their magic as I loose my own. They aren’t aware of my guilt, the guilt that hunts me as I step inside my room, close my eyes and try to dwell on my lose. But as I try vainly to keep my silence in prayers and imprison myself inside my room, I suffer more. I keep my thoughts in the flesh of my heart not in my tongue and my memories in the walls of my bones not in my mind so as to not have the urge to recollect them just in case I would need to. I would survive a day, a week, a month and luckily now, a year. The only magic left.

As I hit another stick of cigar my eyes begin to grope for my magic, my magic with the people and the parts of my life that I fell in love with. I don’t know if they are still capable of understanding me and my words, my emotions, my actions, my indecisions, and my push to get back the magic I lost. I just don’t know. I had turned my back on many of them knowing I had failed them, knowing that our magic is gone forever.

I’ve accepted the fact that I don’t always know how to understand myself what I really want, but often well in understanding others. Because like them, I too need other people’s magic to help me define me, to show me their imagery of me, disobeying my mother’s words. I honestly say I can’t stand-alone. I try with the use of my little magic left but the sparks are too thin to keep me going.

Everyday I watch the sun as it illuminates my room with all its glory. I envy it for the fact that even if the clouds come out and block his way he still embraces his chance to prove himself again and the magic he can bring. I can never be like that. I can only let the bad things ruin me until I’m crushed into pieces and the little less magic left is entirely gone. I am weak. I am fragile and I am breaking down. I have lost all traces of magic in me and I no longer have anything left inside.
I’ve concluded that I have lived the life I sought to have, the life that is now burning my skin and breaking my every pore. The life I thought I would never have. I am not okay, and I admit. My life is a mess and I can’t stand it. My life has been ruined that only the hands of the offender can mend it. My magic has gone, and who stole it? Could be just I.