The real magic

One of the TV shows I’m obsessed with has a saying: “Magic is Power” (You’re wrong, Cersei Lannister would say: Power is Power). I’m not arguing against neither saying.

For me, Words are Magic. Words can wield power. Words can seduce. Words can evoke the fluttering wings of hummingbirds, brushing against the inside of your belly. Words can arouse. Words can devastate.

Words are magical, that’s why it is possible for a poem or a song or a book to bring you to tears. George R.R. Martin has the power to build worlds out of words that are so real you can smell and taste and feel them. Fiona Apple writes songs that clench my stomach to little knots, and twist and turn them upside down. And Robert Carlyle (don’t get me even started on his perfection) has a voice that can turn the most ordinary words into something oscillating deep inside you, something resonating with your diaphragm, like dew glistening in the first light of morning and deep breaths of clean air.

I may be a bit florid here. Point is: Words are Magic. Words touch you where nothing else can touch you, inside your brain, inside your heart. Inside you.

That’s why everyone wielding the power of words – singers and songwriters, writers, actors – has my utmost respect. In some cases my eternal devotion (yeah, that’s why I said don’t even get me started – I may miss the appropiate gateway to leave the conversation with my dignity still intact).

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