Hell is fluorescent lights and the clicking of mice; a place where the mind can’t breathe; a place where the soul forgets her wings; a place where the only flickers of wonder are found in well-constructed Excel formulas. This was never my kind of magic. I often question why the little rectangles on a spreadsheet are called “cells” instead of “boxes.” Then it dawned on me: this is because working these things as a daily job function is the closest you can get to feeling prisoner without committing a felony. This was never my kind of magic. Hell remains sedentary, listening to the same fifteen rotating songs on a soft rock radio station chosen by someone who makes triple your wages. It’s prepackaged breakfast out of a vending machine, eaten in a 4x4 cubicle that’s fixed in a room without a single window. This was never my kind of magic. Hell is a cheap Chinese finger trap: failing to find release by pulling in wrong directions. It’s a tight trickery that insists you stay because you have nowhere else to go; but my kind of magic is the inward force that has met a friendly freedom. It’s bathed in inviting shades of turquoise, and fell in love with the solace of the desert. It’s memorized the curves of mountain peaks and collected freckles from every angle of the sun. It loves the rush of blood to the head, when racing the sunrise on the edge of some atmosphere. Something that hell could never put its thumb on; this is my kind of magic.