And maybe I believe in faeries

Is it absurd to believe in unbelievable things?
To believe in things with wings and teeth with ancient knowledge in their eyes.
We've heard the things that go bump in the night and we've told ourselves fantasies that they are just the wind, just a cat, not a troll. Not an enormous evil green thing with rows of sharp teeth, not a mischevious pixie, not a wise satyr. We tell ourselves these little things to keep us in a reality we can observe, we live so superficially and yet...

We believe in men in the clouds that could influence our days but don't. In twelve armed women and elephants. We believe in souls - a spiritual organ - and faith - truth without proof - and yet we dismiss these other things as childhood stories, as things that we tell our kids to grow their imagination before we kill that imagination dead in the shooting range of highschool

And you replace the stories of fairies, of trolls of princes of bravery of life lessons with stories of gods and promises and men with beards and disobedience as the first sin and places we may go if we die. Religion replaces fantasy but should it?

Is god better for us than a hero?
where is the value in hell?
What is the point of waiting for death to appear for paradise to happen?
Can joy not exist here on Earth? On the wide wide globe with its many festive cultures and its scenery and its life.

Even now as the greenhouse gets gased and the mysterious oceans rise up to swallow us is there beauty in the world.

Gaia is still the prettiest woman alive and she is alive. But not alive in our personal bubble.

I sometimes think that when a man is disgruntled with his job and his life, with the decisions he made and the city in which he sleeps and Al Gore appears asking for him to save this world that he really doesn't care. That secretly he is thinking "let it burn! Let the world die, I don't want it." Maybe if he had seen the world he would know differently. Maybe if he broke away from his concrete swathe of habitat he would care more. Maybe men shouldn't be allowed to live in the place they were born. Maybe we are nomads. I know we are nomads

And I know mother Earth has secrets she will not share. In the shadows and the moonlight there are things that lurk, that crawl that prance. The world is magical still.

We are just too old, we have lost the clarity of childhood. Living has been replaced with surviving. We go to school we work and we die. Slowly, ever so slowly just crumbling away in death's eternal circle. So maybe I do believe in magic. Believing in magic is believing that we are naive  Naivity is childhood and childhood is where we belong