The hours in-between, when no light separates night from day, when both are morning, when both are one.
These are the restless hours, so suited to illusion. Their magic lies in that they are neither dark nor light.
Just when I believe I see one thing, something else is revealed. The more aware I am, the more the magic reveals.
Is that not the heart of illusion? The unknown shrouded in the midst of the known.
Murky by design, these hours of in-between keep me on the cusp of the believable. Momentarily, the sound of rain becomes a waterfall.
On this day, the light remains gray, the illusion of the waterfall all but gone. I opt for candlelight and a bit of incense as I write by the light of a screen.
I want to make the magic stay, that time when morning is not yet day, when one is not yet the other.