The Magician

It is in the absence that it reveals itself. In the not seen that we know it is there.

I recall once watching as David Copperfield made the Statue of Liberty disappear. But even he is not the equal of this master of deception. Wherever we are, what we know to be true is not. What our mind tells us must be, our eyes tell us to the contrary.

Its partner is a smell that is palpable. As though it can be touched, or maybe brushed off, or rinsed away. But it clings to us as closely as a new born to its mother. We have no weapons to threaten it, to ward off its approach.

It is an unwelcome intruder in our home, permeating our walls without invitation, a thief who robs us of the illusion that there is an impenetrable boundary separating there from here. We are trapped, prisoners with no route of escape.

We wait for the sky to return from wherever it has gone. For the blues, the whites, the grays to reveal themselves. For now we reside in a monochromatic world, like the color of a final sickness, drained of everything but a pallid yellow tint. 

We are told it will soon leave as it has arrived, of its own accord. And when it does we will be left with no sign that it was ever hear. Its own great disappearing act. 

The magician.