NYAC | 3min Read
Published on May 7, 2026
Borders
Borders
Long before Booktok writers invented their striking fae characters, before
Tolkien created Lord of The Rings, before mythologists wrote of naiads and
mermaids, before Coleridge and Wordsworth began their search for the
supernatural through their verse, there was a border.
They say no pirate dared dock their ships from the border’s harbour, no soldier
thought twice before backing away and taking the longer route around, no king
dreamed of fortifying territories five miles within the boundary.
What they don’t mention is how most writers couldn’t bear being so
pain-stakingly close to magic and not witnessing it, so they tip-toed out at
twilight, because no fear of banishment or death-sentences could crush the
hunger for knowledge. They watched till the sun rose, but no amount of
metaphors could capture the fluttering of the fairies’ wings or calls of sirens.
They don’t mention how no artist could sleep without copying the exact
patterns of the mermaids’ scales, because no fear of the supernatural could
suppress the passion for their craft. They sat cross-legged on the border,
ignorant of the shiny burns that scarred their calves, but no amount of acrylics
and oils could grasp the essence of this wonderland.
They don’t mention how no dancer was satiated without watching the dryads
perform, without replicating their steps and graceful gestures, for no fear of
punishment and retribution could stop them from attaining perfection. They
spent hours mirroring the same step again and again, but no amount of
practice could battle with the nymphs’ other-worldly charm.
In honour of the valiant efforts of these craftsmen, who revered and cherished
the magic of the other side, whose arts were meaningless without this fountainof inspiration, the border was cast away. Slowly, but surely, the two worlds
merged. Magic started seeping into the mundane, natural and supernatural
existed in wonderful coalescence, reality and mysticism worked in perfect
synchronisation.
You don’t believe me, you say? What about the blood of fairies that can be seen
in ballerinas who hover mid-air, in the seven-year-old who never breaks a
promise? Can’t you see the descendants of dryads in hikers who never trip over
roots, the suburban grandmother who knows exactly which berries are
poisonous and which aren’t, poets who seek comfort in the forest? The blood of
mermaids in Olympic swimmers who cut through water like it’s second nature,
in powerful rowers who’d rather fall off the boat than lose the race. The blood of
shapeshifters in actors who slip from villain to hero with disarming ease, in
friends who blend into every crowd. Blood of centaurs in soldiers who leave
their families in honour of their country, without knowing if they’ll see them
again, in the five-year-old who’d rather take a scolding than lie, in professors
who enforce discipline and love in equal measure to their children.
This is where we are, teetering on the cusp of normal and paranormal, on the
border of magic and reality, sometimes, leaning into the other side for a
moment too long.
