There’s always this one magic that only you, and perhaps a little of Leah, can spell. This is the type of magic that can make the jeepneys that I ride grow its own steel wings and fly above the burgeoning traffic that haunts my everyday, and alight on another big magical place somewhere in time.
You had it, but I don’t like to predispose any of it, because I think everyone has some special way of affecting their own type of magic.
But yours is different. Yours is Gabriel Garcia Marquez kind of spellbinding, surreal, almost real and hard to forget, moving in time but never changing along with it.
That is what I don’t understand. There are times when I’m almost posed to believe that the magic brought us to grow up in some small, quintessential town in South America where at such young ages we only know the bitter taste of rebellion, where we are characterized as some mercurial mysterious writers about to set ablaze the hearts of others through the things we write and don’t write, where we ride the motorcycle of our dreams strapped on the back of the then-hot-now-dead Señor Guevarra.
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20 something, quarter-life crisis, loss of love, name it, nothing's weird.
