It's always the simplest of things; fractions of seconds; that lead to moments of genuine and rather strange epiphany. Like seeing a fairy tale.
"This is the story of how I died."
"And we are living happily ever after. Yes, we are!"
Except you aren't. You are just crestfallen. Ennui, if described more appropriately. Because,
No Eugene Fitzherbert. No fire-breathing dragons. No shimmering forests.
Even so, there's a trace of magic in this mundane world. In the hearts of those who prefer the darkness and revel in what's not real.
If you ask a Japanese author what causes an earthquake, he would probably say—A giant, angry worm.
If you ask a sweet lady what's her reason to smile, she would probably say—My grandchild.
If you ask a young man why he fights a war, he would probably say—For her.
The words where worlds unfurl and there's a singular thought that entwines the heart. That is probably the magic. The euphoria.
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