What does a magician know of magic when it’s all a lie from beginning to end?

Does he think he does real magic? Or is he caught up in his own illusion, with his cape, top hat, and sleek black slacks,  giving the audience a dark conspiratorial grin, as if he had access to some great mystery others do not?

Perhaps he is. Caught up.

Maybe he simply enjoys the wide eyes, the admiration, the controlling of outcomes, the smiles, the laughter, the sense of being one with the wonder in someone else’s eyes that are not his own.

For when he goes home, and removes his costume, he is alone.

There are no lights following him across the stage to his next trick, no applause, no adoration, no wonder, for him to hold onto.

Just him.

And that sadly that has never been enough for him or anyone for too long.

So he takes a bow
knowing he will eventually return.

And that has to be enough.

For the show must always go on, and he has a part to play for as long as the magic that still lingers within him stays.

By Philip Wardlow June, 2025