The Magic Is Gone

A cruel effect of growing age, that sometimes makes me seethe in rage, that makes the world itself feel wrong, is the fact that the magic is gone. I can recall when I was young, so many songs were to be sung, the world was all mine to explore, and all its parts seemed so much more. Each forest was a new frontier into which I could disappear, each new town was a mystery, and would figure it out? Me! Each vacation an adventure, where I’d do something great, for sure. Each deer that I say from the road had noble bearing I should know. Every old veteran that I met held great wisdom I didn’t know yet. But all the forests have been tracked, from vacations we all come back, the towns are often much the same, and old men can be quite a pain… Until the mask was pulled away, and the mystery held no sway, the magic pull of innocence crumble before experience. The forest is still nice to hike, and smallish towns I still do like, but mostly because they bring peace, a break from work, a small relief. The vacations still are fun, but I know that it has all been done, no great meaning awaiting us… To this day I still felt that loss, That missing sense, like a lost limb, a phantom out there in the dim. You’re too young to appreciate the way things feel when you are eight, and it’s still hard to think upon living life with the magic gone.