It’s hard to put into words, really. You know the feeling you get when you see those pictures of a still lake under a rich Milky Way sky? The Milky Way reflects off the lake, in a way that the entire scene is awash with magical starlight and an aura of transcendence? That’s the feeling I get when I look at the sidewalk. The shapes of the rocks, the fallen leaves, the cigarette butts blend together to form a tapestry of magic. Magic is the word that keeps coming to mind. I don’t know how else to describe it. I didn’t always see it. I’m a reasonable, logical person. I don’t believe in magic. And I still don’t. Yet I can’t help what I see. Sometimes, I can extend it to the trees. I haven’t managed to do it with buildings quite yet. But I often see it in the grass, in shrubs, in ornamental city plants. I feel like it is meaningful somehow. It is almost annoying, though. What is the point of seeing magic if you can’t use it?
Sitting in a clearing now, on the mountain, letting the shapes speak to me. I try breathing them in. I try visualizing them as they rearrange themselves into meaningful patterns, each jagged leaf and smooth rock organizing into a natural language that I don’t speak. Suddenly, I hear laughter from the direction of a large tree to the north. An odd wind blows a couple of leaves into a miniature tornado, but nobody is there. Until I close my eyes. I see the face of a beautiful woman with unreal hair, a cigarette to her lips, and gossamer wings.