The Magician

The magician looks into the blue eyes, momentarily forgetting who he is. He is being washed away by the waves in those eyes.

He is young, but he is fascinated by the old craft of magic, markets like this one being the perfect place to practice. Hyptonism is his favourite art. The swinging of a trinket, seeing people sleep with their eyes open, getting transported to their past, floating into the dark recesses of their minds.

Today is the second day of the fair and he has been hoping he would be able to practice his craft on some young uns. They are more difficult to break through, so alert and skeptical that they are.

And in walks this girl into the little tent. Soft and light, like a breeze. His heart stops for a moment, his soul stirs, his stomach flutters. Love at first sight? Nonsense, he thinks.

And then he looks at her eyes and he knows he has sunk. Deep into that ocean of blue, of indigo, of violet.

“Hi,”

“I heard you hyptonise people,” Are you a psychic? Can you do that to me and find out what my soul is searching for?”, she says. Her voice smooth as velvet, musical as a songbird.

“I can’t hyptonise someone who has hyptonised me.” He thinks, but does not say.

“Yes, sure. I think I know who your soul has been searching for,” he says.

“You do?Already?”

“I do. For maybe I have been searching for the same thing.”

“Thats nonsense,” says the girl.

“I thought so too. Till a moment ago.”

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