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It's not that I had forgotten there was magic. I just wasn't using it.
Knowing and doing are two different things. I haven't read a book (a real book, with a story; not a school book or a book describing the connections between the Romantic Circle at Jena and the festival at Beyreuth) since I started school.
Time disappears, and the day is gone while there are love and war in another world, crying at how similar we are and how much clearer it is there. And the serenade in b-flat major suddenly has a play count of 39 and the salt has dried in tracks on my face. I remember Empyrion in a practice room over days, only alien until the experience was finished and everything explained. They don't explain life for you like that.
It's like music. Why do we want so much to hurt for someone else? Or is it all for ourselves? Or is it so we can feel, because we aren't really feeling the rest of the time and we want to get drunk on it? It's rich. To lose not yourself, but your self in the struggle you can't realign to tie off so lucidly in life, is at best the attraction of escapism. But it's not really taking the easy way out, is it, when their pain is so much greater than mine? Why?
Chords roll and people in books are more real than the people I know, except for you.
Knowing and doing are two different things. I haven't read a book (a real book, with a story; not a school book or a book describing the connections between the Romantic Circle at Jena and the festival at Beyreuth) since I started school.
Time disappears, and the day is gone while there are love and war in another world, crying at how similar we are and how much clearer it is there. And the serenade in b-flat major suddenly has a play count of 39 and the salt has dried in tracks on my face. I remember Empyrion in a practice room over days, only alien until the experience was finished and everything explained. They don't explain life for you like that.
It's like music. Why do we want so much to hurt for someone else? Or is it all for ourselves? Or is it so we can feel, because we aren't really feeling the rest of the time and we want to get drunk on it? It's rich. To lose not yourself, but your self in the struggle you can't realign to tie off so lucidly in life, is at best the attraction of escapism. But it's not really taking the easy way out, is it, when their pain is so much greater than mine? Why?
Chords roll and people in books are more real than the people I know, except for you.