magic - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Some places are magic; it's a thing you feel in the soul as much as the eyes. The valley was the kind of green that sets free the child self, inviting you to join the infinite horizon of your soul.
They say that any technology sufficiently advanced looks like magic, and you see, there is the clue to the art of magic... it's also a science, a technology. It can be used for the betterment of mankind, to promote our evolution, or to bring devastation upon us all. Those who practice the dark arts use it for power and control, for abuse and for the pleasure they feel in causing pain and death. It is for the most parts a linguistical method, hence the "spells" in literature, the sense that it is done with words... because for the most part, it is. It is often combined with fear and sometimes drugs. It works because of the way the brain is wired with words and images.
Magic can be used to make a person forget experiences, to not see what is right in front of them and to control behaviour. With words you can be paralysed or have your body controlled... yet it is possible to fight your way out of it, to resist the "spell" and I'm living proof of that. I'm the one who was never supposed to survive. For the ones that fight the spells, who emerge with memories that were supposed to be erased, there will be the drugs to induce insanity and the watchers to ensure you are living as you ought to, that even if you have memories you are too intimidated to tell them. Magic is a science and an art, it uses the entire brain... so be both too, be a scientist and an artist, use positive phrasing, be kind with your words... then the ones who aren't will stand out, or else they'll have to hide and be reduced in the ways they harm our world. And please remember, there are the good magicians too, the ones who will share their abilities and teach you how it works. So please, dear muggles, wake up, because we're trying with every ounce of strength we have to save you.
We good magicians work with and for the positive universal force, we are helped by love and made well by love. The dark arts magicians are helped by the negative force and they are poisoned by love, feeding off pain.
I hold out my hand in shock. Pulsing from my fingertips is a strange, bright light. I watch it flicker, changing colors from amber, to ruby, then back to gold. I clench my fist, my nails digging into my palms. This isn't supposed to happen. I'm not supposed to have this. The elders forbid it. If they learned of this, I would be banished. I sigh, slumping against the wall. What am I supposed to do now?
With trembling fingers, I clutch the mirror on the wall for support. Threads of silver wind of the edge in stunning floral designs. The glass surface is covered in dust. I hold up my hand hesitantly, and touch the glass. Immediately, my fingers sink though.
I double over. My mouth is filled with the coppery tang of blood, and it feels like fire is rushing through my veins. I moan as my vision shifts and the world erupts with colors. At first, it hurts, but then I'm suddenly filled with confidence and power. I push my self up. In the mirror, I can see my mouth is set in a hard line. My eyes are glowing gold. The light burns brighter and I curl my fingers up.
This is my magic.
This is my life.
The sweet smell of decaying plant matter and rain mingled with the cool and gentle breeze, which swayed the upper branches of century-old oaks. It was here, on one of these very streets that I found myself standing about, taking in the fresh air. If we went back a minute, I wouldn’t be here. Actually, I would be nowhere and nobody in this universe. I came from another earth, a world unconnected from this one, but so close you might just touch it with the front of your nose. My name is Vern. I came for some sightseeing and to observe how other-worlders occupy themselves on a beautiful spring day. People don’t practice magic here, but it certainly was in the air, copious and lingering in the petrichor and decaying leaves. Magicians at home are always trying to glean more power and wisdom from the magic we have already tamed and stifled for the last ten-thousand years. After centuries of overuse, our resources are running dry.
It is here, in the midst of an industrialized civilization, that magic still flowed rampant and wild through a world. A surge of energy courses through my veins. I’m alive again. Magic can be held in any sanctuary, being contained within the sights, sounds and smells of a world. "Contained" seems like the wrong word for magic in this world, unlike our own where such power has been dammed up and caged. Here, magic is in symbiosis with reality. At home, where magic always had fixed routes to guide me, here it doesn’t take notice of me. I’m left to wander and wonder again, like a child.
A hint of a deeper magic called from a distance away. This magic wasn’t only more dense, it was ripe, like if it were coming from well-decayed flesh mingling with the earth. Terrifying, unintentional, human magic.
A nonentity was walking ahead of me, only, it wasn’t a nonentity; the magic was coming from her.
"Might as well say Hi."