on the cusp of magic

by brynne

Disclaimer: I’m guest posting. Because he asked me too. Because I know he’ll smile when he discovers it. Forgive the intrusion, and the self-deprecation, I come in peace…

I was born the morning of June 20th, ushering in the summer solstice and a full moon. I breathed my first breaths on the longest day of the year and through the shortest night; I opened my eyes for the first time to witness the end of spring, and the first day of summer. My first cries, an ode to the sun. This day has been celebrated for centuries as a time when realities blend, where the walls between what is, and what could be, wear thin. Anything is possible, the fay and folk dance together, motions mingled…together in rhythm and close enough to touch, if only for a moment. For this reason, the days surrounding the solstice are known as the Cusp of Magic.

Those of us born under this particular influence are astrologically inclined to be caught at odds at the intersect of logic and emotion. In logic we find clarity, upon which we build our Popsicle-stick empires. The catch of course, is that watery emotion presents a threat to such a feeble foundation. Life on the literal edge, Gemini Cancer, always on the verge of catastrophe.

My birthday has provided ample metaphor for many aspects of my life, one led with a certain degree of self-introspection that borders on narcissism (please forgive me). But perhaps it explains my fascination with the literal bookends of life. Birth…and Death. Beginnings and endings are the first things I ever really knew. It’s these moments that stick out with abandon from the recesses of my mind; when it started…laid neatly next to where it ended, corners folded. The middle, by no means less important, remains for me, less vibrant than the start, less poignant than the finish.

The glory of life is that it is filled with beginnings and endings, which at the very least keep me occupied, with a dash of interested. But I believe that someday, the pomp of my birth with be matched by the flourish of my death. Time will bend, the walls will thin, linear perception will slow to feeble striations like heat waves off hot pavement, and I will go out…Blip.

The sun, set on paradise.

– B