When Magic Doesn’t Exist
I died on April 17, 2023. It was a Monday.
Not biologically.
But in every way that matters.
The Witness saw me take my last breath of imagination, connection, memory, and hope.
That was the day the music stopped.
The day I stopped thinking in layers.
The day dreaming became impossible.
Futures didn’t exist.
Yesterday belonged to someone else.
I moved.
I worked.
I smiled.
But I was gone.
There’s no exaggeration here.
This is the obituary that never got written.
The book is the funeral.
And this chapter is where you sit with the body.
It wasn’t brain fog.
Not really.
People say fog like it means confusion.
But a fog still implies you’re in there somewhere.
I wasn’t.
I wasn’t behind the fog.
I was absent.
Not lost—erased.
Everything was off.
Half a beat late.
Like life was a song I used to know how to dance to,
and now the music was gone.
I moved like someone else.
Thought like someone else.
Drew like someone else.
That was the soul of what was wrong.
Everything else—
the silence, the restraint, the depression—
just grew around it like moss.
Everything became manual.
Thinking. Remembering. Moving.
I used to sketch naturally in my head.
Eat. Joke. Drive. React. All second nature.
But in that season? Nothing came automatic.
And the worst part?
You can get used to being tired.
But you never get used to not trusting your brain.
Now imagine a perfectly shit day.
You know the day.
The one where you wake up already behind.
Not by much—just enough to feel off.
The light feels wrong. The air feels thick.
You bump into a doorframe you’ve walked past a thousand times.
Drop your toothbrush. Twice.
The towel you need is still damp from yesterday.
You pour coffee. Forgot to buy more.
It’s bitter and weak and somehow still cold.
The milk in the fridge smells like it’s mad at you.
You try to read something, and nothing sticks.
Every sound around you is too loud—
the fridge hums like it’s judging you.
You check the clock four times in two minutes.
Time is moving wrong.
Your pants fit weird.
Your keys disappear.
Your phone dies at 22%.
And when someone talks to you,
you realize you’ve forgotten how to respond like a person.
By noon, you’re pretending it’s just one of those days.
By 3pm, you’re sure the universe is fucking with you.
By 7, you’re exhausted and can’t remember what you did.
You fall asleep thinking,
“What the hell was that?”
That day?
That’s what most people call off.
That was my every day.
Every second.
Every breath.
While still being expected to deliver.
Now, on top of that, strip your brain’s ability to think clearly.
Not emotionally.
Mechanically.
I couldn’t hold complex thoughts.
Couldn’t picture future moves.
Couldn’t visualize what I used to see.
I was on dial-up internet
while everyone else was Steve Jobs.
I’d try to remember a name and forget why I needed it.
Try to plan dinner and forget what I ate for breakfast.
And still—
life kept asking me to perform.
Smile. Text back. Be normal.
I was running a system that hadn’t been updated since 2001.
But no one could tell.
Because I still showed up.
I used to joke I had a ten-year plan.
It wasn’t a plan to succeed.
It was a plan to die.
And it wasn’t a joke.
If things didn’t change in ten years, I was out.
Then it became five.
Then one.
Then… ten minutes.
Eventually, it wasn’t a plan at all.
Just a memory of something I used to have.
Like imagination.
Like appetite.
Like me.
I died again in September.
When your magic dies, it doesn’t feel like a dramatic loss.
It’s quieter than that.
It’s the moment you realize you haven’t laughed in weeks.
Haven’t sung.
Haven’t looked forward to anything.
Magic isn’t some big creative surge.
It’s a thousand invisible pulses that keep you connected to life.
And when they stop firing,
you stop firing.
Creatively, I adapted.
Not out of brilliance.
Out of necessity.
I couldn’t see moves ahead.
Couldn’t draw from scratch.
Couldn’t imagine.
I wasn’t building anything.
I was patching a leak in a sinking ship.
My body was stuck in fight-or-flight,
and my brain couldn’t solve anything.
Stillness wasn’t peace—it was containment.
I used to be someone.
Romantic. Sweet.
Soft on the edges.
My mom made sure of it.
But when you can’t see the future,
and you can’t remember the past,
you stop being able to be anything.
If an object wasn’t in front of me,
it didn’t exist.
I didn’t exist.
This is what happens when magic doesn’t exist.
Not metaphor.
Not sadness.
Death.
Without a witness.
Until now.