Sometimes, it seems to me this are two worlds; there is the one in which we dwell and the other into which we can only chance to stray. Tolkien called it mythos. It is the world of dream, of imagination, of story, the birthplace of our legends. Most have grown out of awareness of its existence, though they enter it when they sleep and when they dream. All children know it; they live simultaneously in both worlds until they are told to grow up. A few retain their presence in this world, exploring it, loving it, knowing it, finding it impossible to explain except through their stories or sculptures or music. Many, upon reading or hearing or seeing these compositions, experience a resonance deep in their chests, the stirring of an unconscious memory.
Even the best forget, however. They fall out of the second world for any of a dozen reasons. A sudden hardship, a lack of faith, a forgetting of self - any of these will take a person by the collar and fling him out. And for a time, those thus ejected cannot find any entrances. They wander about bewildered, saddened, and not quite themselves.
Every entrance is different, corresponding to the resonance felt by those who have forgotten this realm. Sometimes an entrance is the sight of a child holding a flower, the smell of seasons turning, the sound of a perfect high C. Some returns happen in a blink. Some are slower, requiring more effort on the seeker's part, a trail of breadcrumbs back home. Trails lead to breaks in the wall or spaces where the veil thins.
I am at a thinning of the veil.
No comments:
Post a Comment