Tinkerbell, near death, can only be saved if we, the audience, will her to live, save her with our faith in her. We clap and she revives and rises. Peter Pan could not be happier. The children, relieved.
We have done our duty and saved a fake fairy. It feels good.
Now, I see it everywhere: the faith that something is the case makes it the case.
Jewelry is Tinkerbell. That diamond has value because we believe it, Yes, it’s rare, but even rare only matters because we believe it matters. Give the wine a French name, slap a fancy label on it, and suddenly it’s sublime. This is no Two Buck Chuck, which may be fine for a summer barbecue. This is 50th anniversary wine. This says you have arrived. The finer things. Yes.
We live in the fairy world; Tinkerbells everywhere, sitting on our shoulders, curled in the crook our of necks, so convincing. What would the world be without Tinkerbells?
Lawless. Artless. Empty.
She’s real. The construct matters, has weight and meaning. The diamond in your watch glints. The wine smooths your day. You don’t have to want to believe. You do.
Believing is seeing. Believing makes it so. Believing creates.
What else is there? The author begs you to have faith, bring her to life. You could say no. But you never do.
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