You know the moment when something passes, you think back and wonder, did it really happen? Did I really feel what I think I felt?

What it’s saying is - can I really trust my own perception?

I know what science says: every time you recall a piece of memory, you change it slightly. The difference is so tiny you might not even realize what you’ve done, until the entire story is completely distorted.

I wanted desperately to have one conclusive narrative so I could move on. Or at least a reason why. So at first, I tried to believe that it was all in my head and it was nothing significant. But it just didn’t sit right with me.

My heart knew something was different. The never-ending chatter in my head disappeared like the sounds on a fresh snowday. My chest fluttered with surprise and happiness with every frame my eyes let in. The uncanny coincidences, over and over again. The symbolism was written all over it. It’s cruel and arrogant to shut it down without care.

It might sound unreal to another person, because it was unreal.

But it wasn’t that simple.

The same sunny mountain can turn dark and gloomy in a second. Where I offered honesty and vulnerability, I received judgment and attack in return. I couldn’t help but to feel small and invisible, slowly disappearing into myself. But that damned empathy wouldn’t let me rage.

So here you have it, all of the clues I’m confronted with. Should I trust them? Should I trust that magic and hurt can co-exist? That this was damn close to the real deal but still not quite it?

The romantic in me wants to - and will - hold space for magic. But I reject cynicism, denial and lack of nuance.

With that, I’m returning to what I was doing before with a bit more hope - becoming the healthiest, happiest and most alive self I could possibly be. And one day, just maybe, the magic will find me again.