Magic is Real

We haven’t talked in a while, and I’m really sorry for that. We kind of drifted apart. I think the childlike wonder left us. Do you remember when we convinced our small group of elementary school friends that magic existed? We would find fairies in the flowers near the library, predict the lightning and pretend we were making it during class, step on a crack in the concrete near the playground with our tiny shoes and stomp our feet to look like we made the crack. One time I actually bit you at recess to prove that I was possessed by a raven. I got detention for that, you know. It wasn’t out of malice. I really wanted you to believe I was a raven, and I guess I did too. Better than being a lame non-magical kid.
Playing in the pebbles, pretending there were spirits in the forest, creating worlds of our own—we’re two incredibly creative people, and I think our little magic world helped create that. You’re an artist now (you always have been), and you’re incredibly talented. I remember you painting and constantly creating and collecting bones and stones and funny-looking sticks and—remember when we would make potions in my backyard on top of the external heater outside my house? We would grind up leaves and sticks and interesting things we found in the yard into a green paste and pretend we were forest druids. We would explore in the forest behind your house and point out animal tracks, strange, alien-like plants, and forage. We would go so far that it seemed almost like we entered another planet. I remember there was a seemingly unending path overrun with long tentacle-like grass, and a gigantic circular pool covered in algae. We would venture all day until your mom called:
“You need to come back, I have dinner and you shouldn’t stay out there too long.”
Then you would answer angrily:
“Ten more minutes, pleeeease? Come onnnn,” and your mother would reluctantly agree and we would stay thirty minutes instead, coming back to a cold dinner but feeling adventurous.
We drifted apart a bit. In high school I think I was too distracted by my own emotions to be a good friend to you. And now I’ve moved away and we don’t talk, which I’m not incredibly sour about (I hope that you feel that we had a good run too, as I do), but I do miss the imagination we had. It really helped me, both to develop my creativity and to just help me get away from the sucky parts of being a kid. As we got older, we tried to rekindle that old feeling of being lost in our own creative world, but I don’t think it ever worked. We just started to sound like crazy, edgy teenagers. Adults have to express creativity in ways that are packageable and distributable, or else it’s just acting childishly. Maybe one day we can meet up, play video games, and have a good time just being childish adults.