I always wanted something special to happen to me. This desire isn't special in and of itself, you'd be hard pressed to find someone who didn't want some fantastic adventure, but for me it's more than that. It's as if meeting a fairy, or slaying a ravenous beast, or turning into a mermaid is the only way for me to discover who I am, as if the only catalyst for change within me, is fantastical change from without. At least, that's how it seems.
You know the saying that if you go looking for love you won't find it, but if you sit back and be yourself, it will just come to you, as if contentment with one's status as single produces some pheromone that is irresistible to the opposite sex? Well, if that applies to fantasy adventure, than I have inadvertently made myself the least likely person to experience it.
Much like love, the fantastic and paranormal is something I hunt for. Obsessively. I try to weasel it out of the most mundane situations. When doing this with romance, I tend to come off as pitifully desperate, while in situations potentially involving fantasy, I tend to come off as a crazy person. I have to investigate every noise I hear in the woods, every leaf that rustles, every twig that snaps, just in case fair folk are afoot. I walk the seashore slowly, stopping to stare at the cresting waves, straining my eyes for the flash of a sea-serpent scales catching sunlight. When I hear hoof-beats, I don't immediately think horse. Not even zebra. No, the first thought that generally crosses my mind is unicorn or perhaps one of the king's chargers delivering a message to the front lines of battle.
Let me let you in on a little secret. Magic isn't real. Dragons, wizards, vampires, fairies, banshees, giants, griffins, they exist only in the realms of the imagination. I know that, but something inside me holds on. It's clutching to childlike imagination like it's a flashlight in a cave. When you think about it, that's kind of what it is, and I suppose that's a good thing.
But, to be honest, while the constant force of reality can't dim my imagination, there's something else inside me, some other light, weak as a candle flame, that gets dimmer with every disappointment.