From the time I learned to read, I continuously dove into fairytale novels and enchanting stories to occupy my imaginative mind.
From Harry Potter to the Twilight series, I devoured fictional story after fictional story, relishing in the splendor of magic and the romantic undercurrents that inevitably ended in happiness.
I envied the characters within these novels. Pristine, filled with adventure and mystery, but above all, they had one common thread in most scenarios: delicious, juicy, and devastatingly unrealistic romance.
The quintessential fairytale.
The theme runs deep in our culture. The constant pressure to achieve fairytale status and define your life and your worth by its envy factor.
Who can travel the furthest and capture the best shot? Who can fall in love with a man who buys you flowers so you can share it to Twitter? Who can pose in the latest swimsuit or land the best job?
While fairytales are wonderful, artfully concocted stories to provide an enthralling escape from the harsh reality, that’s the problem. They’re just stories.
And I don’t believe in fairytales anymore.
My favorite hobby is daydreaming. Wondering what could happen if things worked out with a certain person or what my life would be like if x, y, or z went right. What would make my life the perfect story? While it’s fun to indulge in a bit of unrealistic daydreaming, what isn’t fun is to base your life off of imaginary scenarios that will literally never happen.
I and many others have become so entrenched in this culture of daydreaming up the next best thing that the real world slap in the face of “yeah, well this is not a Cinderella story and you’re not a damsel in distress waiting for the climactic ending,” was a tough pill to swallow.
Tears pricked in the corners of my eyes when I realized that the fairytale daydreams simply didn’t satiate me. My heart dropped dramatically when I came to terms with the fact that the story I’ve written in my head is not, and might never be the story which comes true.
But the sadness was quickly replaced with a hot feeling of emboldened bravery. The determination to create my own magic to believe in.
To capture the magic moments in what already exists instead of wistfully lusting after the what if’s and the but’s.
The other night I drove with my windows down on my way home.
The sun dipped gracefully into the western horizon and wild streaks of deep oranges and pinks glazed the sky and bathed the surrounding world in an ethereal glow. The warm air held a hint of intoxicating coolness and the freshly blooming honeysuckle surrounding the streets filled the spaces with a delightful sweetness. My hair caught in between my lips as I sang at the top of my lungs and my entire being swelled to kiss the universe which blessed me with the simple delight.
I thought to myself “wow, this would be really cool to describe in writing. But how will I do that?”
And it hit me. It finally hit me.
Those moments are the magic. The moments when the world is suspended and you’re surrounded by this indescribable energy, pulsating and swirling around you, cocooning you in nothing less than divinity.
The fairytales might not be real. The stories could forever live within you as simply stories. But the magic is surely real. The magic is palpable, tangible, and hidden around every corner, waiting for you to pull the cloth from around your eyes and embrace what is with extreme gratitude and humble reverence.
The magic is waiting for you stop waiting for the fairytale prince to come to save you, and to save yourself with eyes like a child, filled with wonder at the smallest moments, treating every day like it is a new adventure waiting to be explored.