The magician

Life is odd how it grows and moans with the wind, with the growing pains of a thousand tomorrows, and new born yesterdays. Life is odd how we constantly try to fix it, bend a broken bar up the ladder. How we tease eachother on how much money we make and laugh at what we can get away with. Like a screaming man, saying two last words to the woman he never met. Life is odd, how we poke at the fire, thinking we are fanning the flames, and yet every fire was self inflected. The beginning of a chain of events that happened lifetimes ago, when fantasies could crumple like cookies in milk during bedtime stories. We gaze so often into the abyss of our unknown selves, the fate we have re-lived a thousand times, we could write them as catch phrases on hallmark cards, and we tell ourselves the riddles of wisdom, and secrets to try to catch a seam in the patch work of our identity, a rip in a thought where we repeat the same word, over and over again, hanging there like lost children, graveling with the loose ends of a life, a life that came so well prepared.

We dangling in the aftermath of a war, unknown even to our hearts if we will keep fighting, the soldiers who come in forces as our alternate identity, the life that narrowly escapes death over and over again.

We hang there, waiting, looking, assuming someone will come in. A door will be opened and time will release itself again, shooting out like water. But yet, at midnight, watching the air collect on windows and against roofs, up into the stars. I wonder if this moment is what I had always yearned for, the second before the hat of a magician drops, and the audience's breath in, waiting to know if it had all been an accident.