Jack’s Beanstalk

Who was Jack anyway? It didn’t matter then. Shoot! I was going to soar like Superman in a few days.

We knew Magic back then. We knew Magic.

There was a magic mill that was left on and that made the sea salty. Magic potions. Mansions on mountain tops. Snowmen that became real. Talk to birds, read messages in the clouds, knowing all about construction by pushing a dump truck the size of your hand through the sand.

But tragedy strikes. Santa disintegrates in a heartbeat. And like dominoes, so do all our other heroes. We were growing up. Maturing, Fitting in. Learning . . . what others wanted us to learn, because the ‘others’ were jealous of our freedom, our disrespect for ‘what had to be’, our youth. And most of all, their sadness for what they let die in themselves.

That scenario was, and still is, the only way . . . put fissures in the Magic then chip away at it until all that is left are memories. That wonderful sensation of bringing OUR unimaginable thoughts, ideas and pictures together for OUR creation – gone.

After every moment of our lives, we are a little further away from who we really are, or better, who we really were.

There is still ‘silence’, but with the all-important question . . .

‘Can we be silent AND forget about the impact of all the ways our freedoms were taken from us?‘

Let’s meet halfway up one of Jack’s beanstalks, where our sole purpose will be to . . . remember our Magic.