Every year, on each holiday, each birthday, I find myself searching, reaching, scrabbling for even an ounce of the fun and excitement they held as a child. And every year I’m left with sinking disappointment, tired resignation. The magic is gone, and I don’t know how to get it back.
This is a concentrated example, but it feels like all childhood magic has burned away, a permanent migration. Adult magic is sparse, a rare creature with a tired flavor.
It becomes a lifelong treasure hunt, searching for even a scrap, a trace, of something magical/ Perhaps that’s one of the allures of having children. Second-hand magic, becoming one of the magicians.
If you find magic as an adult, others tend to ridicule you and seek to destroy the scraps you unearthed. This is borne from jealousy, but that makes it no less painful.