November 13 2009

 
We were to be as kings. Our role models, our parents, our loved ones told us of a time when the world would be ours. We would be healers, we would be arbiters of justice, we would unlock the secrets of existence itself. These talents were inside of us, and there was no force in the world which could keep them contained. And for a time, we believed all of it. We walked through this world not as spectators, but as royalty in waiting. Those around us were not our equals, but temporary stewards of our rightful inheritance. We began to view the world as we would have it, as we expected it to be. We did not see opportunity around us, we did not see chance. We saw inevitability. And so we waited. We waited for our own prophecies to come true. The seeds of greatness planted in our heads as children grew to a forest of entitlement while our ambition withered. This was our world and we lived in it waiting for the expected to happen. At the edges of our city was a wrought iron sign, proclaiming to all who entered that magic would be found inside. We scoffed. Kings had no place for magic. I know the reality now. I know this world is not ours. I know the dream of being kings was never ours in the first place. We were vessels, tools to act out the lost hopes of a generation before, to realize the greatness they wanted to believe lived within their own hearts. This realization has crushed others, but I see now that the expected is the enemy Because when all you’re looking for is the expected, you miss the magic of the unexpected. You become inoculated to whimsy, to the random and beautiful mysteries of the universe. I sit now at the edge or our city. My bones have grown long and then brittle. My teeth have fallen out, grown back in, and fallen out once more. My joints hurt and my vision has become increasingly cloudy. But I sit here and I look at the wrought iron sign before me. The sky smolders behind it, casting in negative relief the words within. The city name, unimportant, rote, expected is small and perched near the top, away from where the eye wants to focus. My eyes fix on the words below, “THE MAGIC CITY.” I stare for a moment, taking in the burning, end of the world sky behind this simple, loaded phrase. I close my eyes and smile as the words, now white and energized, dance on the inside of my eyelids. you may reach ian at ian[at]iancahill.com #slide { float:left; text-align:left;padding:0px 65px 0px 15px; }#dateline { margin-left:-145px; } #pagination { width:960px; }

We were to be as kings.

Our role models, our parents, our loved ones told us of a time when the world would be ours. We would be healers, we would be arbiters of justice, we would unlock the secrets of existence itself. These talents were inside of us, and there was no force in the world which could keep them contained.

And for a time, we believed all of it.

We walked through this world not as spectators, but as royalty in waiting. Those around us were not our equals, but temporary stewards of our rightful inheritance. We began to view the world as we would have it, as we expected it to be. We did not see opportunity around us, we did not see chance. We saw inevitability.

And so we waited. We waited for our own prophecies to come true. The seeds of greatness planted in our heads as children grew to a forest of entitlement while our ambition withered. This was our world and we lived in it waiting for the expected to happen. At the edges of our city was a wrought iron sign, proclaiming to all who entered that magic would be found inside. We scoffed. Kings had no place for magic.

I know the reality now. I know this world is not ours. I know the dream of being kings was never ours in the first place. We were vessels, tools to act out the lost hopes of a generation before, to realize the greatness they wanted to believe lived within their own hearts. This realization has crushed others, but I see now that the expected is the enemy

Because when all you’re looking for is the expected, you miss the magic of the unexpected. You become inoculated to whimsy, to the random and beautiful mysteries of the universe.

I sit now at the edge or our city. My bones have grown long and then brittle. My teeth have fallen out, grown back in, and fallen out once more. My joints hurt and my vision has become increasingly cloudy. But I sit here and I look at the wrought iron sign before me. The sky smolders behind it, casting in negative relief the words within. The city name, unimportant, rote, expected is small and perched near the top, away from where the eye wants to focus. My eyes fix on the words below, “THE MAGIC CITY.” I stare for a moment, taking in the burning, end of the world sky behind this simple, loaded phrase. I close my eyes and smile as the words, now white and energized, dance on the inside of my eyelids.

you may reach ian at ian[at]iancahill.com