When she decided to leave behind a previous existence, everything died.
And like a grand Australian fire of renewal, she hoped regeneration would do its magic.
But magic only exists in the natural world: the world we knew before the 21st century. These days, instead of magic we have black boxes of a technological bent.
And like any dark art of historical proportions, and historic manners, there is always an administrator – a high priest if you prefer – who knows everything about everything.
Whilst with magic, real magic, only a deity of dubious presence knows everything.
The other downside, of course, around the black boxes of our century’s magic, lies in the fact of their very boxiness; in their very foxiness!
Primarily, they are designed to fox us. To confuse us, OK? But not in playful ways; not as in grand Victorian time.
To do, rather, as boxes now do everywhere: to contain, to hide, to box in.
To lock down.
If only our latterday magic was magick: utterly mysterious ultimately for us all; utterly unknowable forever.
They claim love may serve that purpose.
She had yet to see this.
She was still waiting though.
Maybe one day love’s wrapping-paper would be torn away, like the quiet passion yearned for all her life; earned and gained and lost for so long; failed and worshipped and misunderstood – and, once, even reviled too.
Maybe love’s wrapping-paper would reveal a different kind of black box below: a black box of kindness and generosity, and final acceptance.
Maybe that was the magick she really pursued.
And maybe, after all, she would be able to unwrap it.