I often wonder if there is magic left in the universe. Is the black, cold, emptiness of it so overwhelming that even the starlight is dimmed by comparison? Each little star a twinkling inferno that eventually blinks out and yet the black, cold emptiness remains. Some would argue that there has never been magic, that the creation of the universe is the result of some great big bang that happened by the coming together of random events which resulted in an explosion of elements and here we are. No mystery, no magic, nothing more than a series of accidental happenings resulting in us.
When I was younger I would wonder what it would be like to find the "man of my dreams" and I would ponder the mystery of this. Would he be tall, dark, and handsome - a brooding presence like the universe, or a cheap romance novel hero. Or would he be brilliant, shy, and bespectacled - like the tiny star peeking out at me from behind the clouds on a dark night, or the Harry Potter type hero. Would we fall magically in love and live happily ever after?
For if you think about love, what is it that causes us to be as helplessly attracted to one another as those atoms hurtling together in that smashing explosion of creation? We fling ourselves towards each other in the certainty that we are each other's destiny perhaps later to discover that the big bang has led to creation but not to wonder. Is it too cynical to think that our desire is less the working of magic than the chemical explosion of our desire to live on? The universe is vast, our dreams and hopes a tiny counterpoint to it's majesty. We awaken, we work, we live, we sleep. "To sleep perchance to dream?"
