Magic

You’re beautiful, it’s true..
I saw your face in a crowded place. And I don’t know what to do cos I’ll never be with you..
It will never happen again.
It’s magic, you see. It’s real, only that it’s extremely rare — will probably happen once in a lifetime. It’s come and gone before you realize what’s happening.
You’ll never find a person with whom you share that deep connection again, and it won’t be for lack of trying.
In those dreamy moments when galaxies align and spectacles unravel — a sublime performance, a perfect shot, a sunset framed by wildflowers, errant sentences clicking into masterpieces — we glimpse the titillating edges of a perfect universe that is seemingly forbidden to us.
You’ll spend the rest of your life searching. Thoroughly.
Frantically..
But that’s not how it works. A butterfly might perch at random but chasing it guarantees the opposite outcome.
No one will ever make an album like Florence + The Machine’s Ceremonials again.
There will never be another Beyoncé.
America will never have another black president with impeccable character, an ivy league first lady, and two pet dogs.
Arsenal will never find another coach conveniently named Arsène. (I mean, what kind of incredulous odds are those?)
Leicester City will never again win the league a year after promotion to the top flight.
There will never be another dream team with a galaxy of players that includes rare talents like Kanu, Okocha, Finidi and Lawal and even if there were, they won’t meet Brazil and Argentina in such electric climaxes.
Five years ago on a Sunday evening, I was on the beach and spotted a shooting star. I had never seen one before. There we were on the beach, a couple lost in conversation, and suddenly we spot a ball of fire streaking across the sky like some Hollywood cliché. It was too incredible to be real. I was flabbergasted (I decided to tell this story now because I realized I’ve never told it).
Last week I opened a pack of indomie and found two sachets of seasoning.
Magic.
It’s surreal bursts of profound meaning in an otherwise benign world.
It’s fate.
Whenever people are asked what gives their lives meaning, the answers are the same; Family.
Children.
After a while, any available luminous pinprick of reverence is refreshing.
It’s finding delightful meaning in life’s little mysteries. In a super-logical world, serendipity is like a vein of gold running through the sensible plot of chance.
Glorying in these precious epiphanies for a little longer than usual can’t hurt, surely?
Because ultimately, we’re all on the same flight and it’s not going to Vegas. All we have, the only thing we’re guaranteed from this journey, is the view. Window seats, anyone?
