i write for inner peace.
The magician picks up his deck of cards and searches for significance. He signs his name across the face of indifference for recognition, in an effort to be seen and remembered. He travels through the deck searching for himself, lost in the anonymous shuffle of faces and numbers and symbols.
His ambition propels him to the top: he is king of the hill, his act a perfect 10, winner of the jackpot and ace of his trade. He found his queen, and then three more. He found himself the wild card- the fool traversing in circles only to end up where he started. He becomes lost; a number in a paper chase; a puppet in a box. He is discarded and forgotten.
Into the hands of a new shuffles, he submits. His moment arrives- he is brought back to the top, for all to see, and in those fleeting seconds the room fills with praises. His work finished, he is guided back beneath the shuffling currents like a wave into the ocean from which it came. To everyone's surprise, he transcends the top to move beyond himself, changing colors, being in two places at once: a disposable member of something greater that somehow sticks together through every sharp movement the guiding hand subjects them to.
He is an extension of those hands. If he is seen and remembered, glory to those hands. If he is found, thanks and praise to the one who found him. If he gets torn, and put back together, may his worth be validated. If he gets buried in the deck and somehow rises out into the air, praise be to the riser and redeemer and not the magician by himself.
The magician, significant in his insignificance; a word on a page in a book chosen at random; a numbered card that will someday become dust, concealing infinity at the pips as the hands and blood beneath conceals the sacred heart, conceals the holy night.
The Move Unseen
A blog for magic.