I believe in elves. I believe in the forest-living, magical creatures perhaps with pointed ears, perhaps with long straight silken silvery hair; certainly, with silent feet and a quiet, luminescent virtue. In that place where childhood is still alive inside, where laughter plays like sunlight on water, I intuit them. I sense them on dappled forest paths warm from sun. I hear them in the soft sound of leaves whispering. They are so near that I can catch their iridescent sleeves, if only knew where to stretch my arms. They are fleet of foot and flitting. I hear their laughs like jingling bells gently chiming. They congregate deep in the ancient forests, impervious to the Siberian cold, the Amazonian heat. Their wisdom is deep and long like time.
My elves are good. They possess pure, unadulterated goodness. I believe in such authentic goodness. I believe it is a powerful and dominating force in this world. I believe in good, despite all the hatred, racism, violence, and arbitrary loss that exists right alongside. I credit the magical, the sense of possibility outside known reality, spooky action at a distance.