The Magician

When writing daily, I find occasional comfort in writing ahead - maybe a few journals or songs in one day, when the impulse strikes me - but I don't find the same beauty in planning ahead what I'm going to write or make.

The words I wrote down that had so much power last week, the real potential for something to write about, now seem a little feeble. 'Focus on MY connection to the music, not others'? What on earth is that note meant to mean? (Perhaps I should just taken better notes).

There's a few moments of gold in my notes - novel ideas, fragments of song lyrics - but mostly it's dulled. Oxidised. Corroded to the air and light.

The magic is gone.

Perhaps that means it was never magic to begin with? Maybe it was never gold? Perhaps it had no purpose being expressed - it's just morning pages, bad ideas, dust.

I don't think so.

For every magic trick, there's a magician. A showman, an observer, a conjurer. Someone to make the magic happen. To hone the practice and carve its creation.

I'm working to try and create a little magic every day.

When true magic arrives - I'll be ready.