Magic

Magic doesn't exist, you say?
I've never believed so. It does sound insane but it won't hurt to try and check oft times, like whenever I sweep the floor, I wonder if this time the broom will carry me away to some wonderland where I could find my happily ever after, or to a wicked witch whom I'd fight with to escape (woah! Another adventure).
Or sit on a chair and wish it was "the wishing chair" from Enid Blyton's books, so that I could go wherever I wanted to in a flick. Sometimes, when I walk through my garden, I wish the mango tree or the coconut tree in my yard were like that bean stalk in "the enchanted wood" book series, so that I'd visit different worlds and be best friends with Silky and Moon-Face.
When I was 11, I used to check the mails that were dropped at home, expecting my Hogwarts acceptance letter, and when it didn't come, I started believing that Draco to my Harry might have casted the Confundus charm on the owl which carried my letter. Yes, and I still believe that (asks "after all this time?" and replies to self "Always").
Knowing magic has shaped my childhood and myself. I've known magic, yes, I've experienced it. I still do. I dive deep into a book and live my moments in it, with the characters I love, sharing their stories and adventures. And when I'm forced to return back to the real world, I bring a part of it with me, and whenever I wish to go back, all I have to do is lose myself to my thoughts. Actually, it's not just the books, every piece of writing is magic. So yes, magic exists, in books and in our minds. I'd say we're made of magic, come on, it's obvious, for words are magic made life.