I’ve realized at twenty-five that superstition is a side effect of being hurt. Not like walking under a step ladder or being afraid of a black cat crossing your path. It’s anxious, little things in the periphery– avoiding writing down someone’s name as if it will bring about a curse and refusing to take off chipped, month old nail polish because it’s been a damn good month. We search for a pinch of magic to hold onto when we know what it’s like to be stuck on the other side of it, in a dark room without doors. When you find your little bit of magic, no matter where it is or who it’s with, you hold onto that shit.