On Unicorns

I realize that this is not really the place for this, but I do not really care.

When I was a child, my mom managed to get a copy of the book "Unicorns I Have Known", by Robert Vavra. And I loved that book just as much as she did. I don't remember how old either of us were, but I know that my home life was not a happy one. And I didn't just think unicorns are real, I BELIEVED it, and still do. As far as I am concerned, they are still around, only hiding. Vavra also speaks of an event that happened when he was shooting for his book: One of the models escaped and stopped by a road, just as a schoolbus was driving by. And the children and the teacher and the bus driver stopped to stare in awe.

This kind of hope is what's wrong with the world now. There is no hope, or mystery. We don't care if anything unusual passes by us, as it's part of our daily life. But if I ever see a unicorn, I will not only watch, I will bow to it and thank it, for I will never be more sure of anything than I am at that very moment. I am by no means normal, nor was I ever. I fed the fae, and danced with coyotes, and spoke to cats. Perhaps I would be happier, if I had less of a 'normal' life, and one more suited to my mother's tales of witchcraft and magic, where the dragons and gnomes are real, and we carry elven blood.

My gifts are mostly gone now. I can no longer speak to beasts, only understand them. There is no more magic in my life, and maybe that's the problem.