People talk about the “Magic Hour”, that ethereal glow, as the sun fades but darkness has not yet set, when the world and all of it’s contents are bathed in a light to never be replicated, no matter how one may try. It’s that perfect beauty you see and feel, but, to never, ever

keep

I remember my “Magic Hour”, a series of days and months that spun itself so lusciously and seamlessly into one year then yet another. I remember, so vividly, so vibrantly,so much so, that at times, I almost wish it all either never occurred or that I could just ever so simply, gently, blot it out all together, slowly, to mourn it and then, blink, and be whole again, instead of riddled with holes.

I was deeply steeped in reality, go about the drudgery of going to work, paying bills, people to be disappointed by, and to disappoint, disappoint myself when at times my “creativity” could at best be billed as drivel, however, that glow, the magic of that ethereal, luminous wonderment still yet clung to everything, dripping over every portion of my life , though to those who were not there, as a part of the ever moving marvelous mechanism of the constant motion, emotion, those on the outside, they only fell into one of two catagories, that of complete and utter envy, or, Oblivious Newton John.

For what happened after that fleeting, carefree beauty washed over and through me, when I was so foolish as to believe that kind of happiness was not only attainable but sustainable, when the the first tendrils of darkness slowly began to swallow the ability to breath freely, the even calmness and contentment I had grown accustom to, that I had nurtured and NEVER squandered, well, all that occurred from that point forward, robbed me, my soul, faith, and parts of my heart to never reclaim. And everything since, well, it’s just magnified pain