When I was a child I would walk into the forest, and wonder how so many things could remain untouched and unsullied by humanitys outstretched hands. "They must want to." I'd think, but there must be strong magic here to pervert those tendencies. I didn't feel it then, or maybe didn't understand what I was feeling.
When I was a young man I would walk into the forest and wonder how ancient the universe was, thinking, "It must be a wise and thoughtful entity, that preserves such places." Some great magnitism that holds these places together. And maybe magnitism is some sort of preventative magic, or last resort contigency, when things grow too desperate, or too important to lose.
When I was an adult I would walk into the forest and wonder why I didn't come here more often. The poison of modern humanity had settled deep in my vessel, unwilling or unable to reverse the natural course of the pathogen of time. Alarmed, I sat thinking, "Maybe the magic here now works against me."
When I was an old man I would walk into the forest and wonder how many more times I could come back here, before the void reclaimed the energy spent on my creation. It was a simple price we all paid for the time we've borrowed. And all at once, I didn't have to wonder why the magic hadn't faltered on its duty in preserving these ancient woodlands. Because I knew then, that I too would soon become part of this magic.