You're carrying around tales of the intricate kingdom inside you, and if you dare try to make story time out of them, it's going to feel like words on the tip of your tongue and feathers in your throat--trust me, there are claw marks around my neck from trying to scratch them out. You're going to try so hard, though, but it's no use to tell them in the pieces you can manage because it's no use to tell a joke without the punchline; nobody's going to understand it, nobody's going to laugh--and if they do, they'll only laugh because they want to make you feel better, but it'll only make it worse. The books in your library can't be read by anyone else's head--they don't fit on the shelves and the words don't even register as part of a different language. These are not stories that are meant to leave the safety of your soul. They are a brilliantly awful challenge for a human, a storyteller. How long can human lungs can hold onto a breath of untranslatable feelings? How long can human hearts can go on with the universe's best kept secrets pounding to get out?
Forever. You'll take your stories to your grave and they won't even get a proper burial. Perhaps it sounds tragic, but don't you see--there's magic in it! You have stories inside you that no one else will ever have the chance to understand. They're all yours. Doesn't that make you some sort of foreign world, roped off to visitors and full of incredible undiscoveries? Maybe it's frustrating to have the biggest part of yourself trapped beneath an overprotective atmosphere, but keep in mind the privilege you have of being the only person to ever exist with the ability to put it to use.
You are all alone with an uncharted land, and though no one will ever visit to understand the color of the sky at twilight, that makes you the only one to know of such magnificence. That is beyond magical.