People are firmly planted in the habit of believing the unbelievable. With the church steadily losing its grip on the minds of the enlightened generations, magic is making its comeback, with many many witches and wizards imposing that theirs is the *real* magic. Not only that, but there are scatterings of whackos (with respect... after all, I've known some very nice whackos in my time) that believe Harry Potter, The Matrix, and Lovecraft's Cthulhu are real. Possibly all three at the same time, that would be interesting. I'd like to see Lord Voldemort versus Cthulhu, with Neo in the middle of it, laughing because he knows their power isn't real anway.

Imagine this...



The world is made of hard, grey rock and water, inhospitable to all but only small pockets of life. Humans exist, brandishing rocks and eating little grey plants that they scrape of the rocks. The plant is called Os, and all their life is devoted to the cultivation and preparation of it. It tastes dry and empty, especially after a lifetime eating it in all its exciting forms; boiled os, roast os, raw os, os salad, os soup, os with os...

In fact, everyone and everything is called os. They don't have much else to talk about.

One day, Os lies back against his favourite rock and squints up at the watery sun in its dull grey sky. He thinks of the day before when he tried some rotten os out of interest. He could just remember the taste of his sick as he retched hard and refreshingly, invision the way his entire body convulsed as it rejected the curious substence.

If only, he thought, every day could be as different and interesting as yesterday. It had been the best day of his life.

At this, he fell asleep. This wasn't anything unusual, being the primary recreation of his world.

Os dreamed of strange things. Strange, tall brown pillars of rock, unlike any rock he had ever seen, which branched out into a great fan of rock, each branch covered in many strangely shaped sheets of some strange green os which made a fluttering noise as... moving air moved through them. Animals unlike he had ever seen, flying by pushing against the air like it were water. Colours such as he had never seen scattered against so many constructions he couldn't comprehend. Purple... like blood and summer sky mixed together! It was as if these new colours had always been somewhere in his head, but now he was remembering them... or something like that.

Os jerked awake, his heart beating almost once a second in shock.

"From now on.. I shall be called So!" he cried. As no-one was there to hear him, he ran off to explain his discovery to everyone. It was thereafter accepted that he was a messiah or something, and that the world he dreamt was The Place You Go To When You Die.



See? To them, our world is magical.

What if magic were real? We'd find its limits, and get bored of it. We'd make up something else to believe in, something without limits.

See... people don't want reality. They get used to it after about three years of life, and then they want more. Sure, that's why we make up stories, but believing in them is a mistake. Don't look to what isn't real and you will never have. If you want magic, go out and do something different, go out and look at something old in a new way. There's always more reality.

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