Archive for January, 2010

Seeing is Believing

January 28, 2010

The world is what we see, or choose to.
There’s no guarantee we see the same things.

What I call ‘blue’–the color of the sky–could to you appear the color I call green.  But because we agree the color of the sky is to be called blue we can converse as though we do in fact see it the same.

The same sort of agreement pertains to every object and facet of life. Yet still there are misunderstandings.  It is hard, even impossible, to have complete understanding based on countless assumptions.

Yet still we walk together on this world, or at least we seem to.
Perhaps for each of your steps there are two or three of mine, yet all the same we are walking.
Or are we dancing?


Lost in the Night Tides

January 20, 2010

Be wary of Dreams.
Trust not Yearnings.

Test carefully the waters of your mind before you swim in them for they may, in fact, belong not to you but to Another.

Like the valley ruled by the Guardian, there are other lands linked to dreams.  Some are kindly and some are. . . less so.
There are Seas to drown all Dreamers.

Most such seas are cold and forbidding in aspect, they drown those who dare their waters simply to prevent the attempted intrusion.  They do not wish to allow outsiders within their waves.
These oceans are deadly, but they will not go out of their way to snare one who Wanders.
The gloomy seas do not seek to lure in the unwary.  They harm only those who intrude.

It is their inviting kinfolk one should fear, bedecked in sparkling tides and dancing on glistening strands.

Be wary of dreams, but do not fear them.  Even the roughest sea may have smooth sailing, and the wildest wave can bring the greatest fortune.
Trust not yearnings, but do listen to them.  The song of the heart is not unlike the sea’s secret words.
Treat them properly and they might yield the greatest treasure of all.

The World and Its Kin

January 12, 2010

Inside the great wooden chest on the landing of the stairs in a certain house there is another world.  Opening the chest will not show it to you though. All that lifting the lid does is show you mementos of days gone by in the world we spend our days in.

If worlds could be as easily entered and exited as opening the chest, would anyone stay behind to finish their lives? Whenever the current life became busy, pop! We’d be off like a flash to other worlds to try again.  We’d be a culture of half-finished nomad lives, with no solid endings or beginnings, and tangled middles impossible to parse.

That’s why other worlds are half-accessible at best, normally.  They don’t want to tempt us too strongly.  Worlds have families too, and they want each other to do well.  So when misery or sorrow plague us, and a world is ill, its family clusters around to tell it stories until it feels better.  Sometimes these stories filter through to where we can see them, deep within our world.

They help us to go on our way, and in turn, so does our world.

The Hidden Paths 1/?

January 11, 2010

Once upon a time there was a girl. She could have been a boy, if there were order forms for that sort of thing. But she didn’t mind which she was. Just as well, really. Youngest of three, or perhaps some other number, she had nothing to be the opposite of and simply followed the paths as she found them.

The paths took her many places and each place she met new people. When she met them, they would give her masks. Some were quite solid, with names and lives of their own. Some were comfortable to wear. Some were such a stretch they barely fit. And some were as filmy and delicate as spiderwebs flecked with dew. Sometimes the girl changed to suit the masks, and other times, they changed to suit her. She kept some of the masks for always, and left others behind to find different wearers.

Every person she met wore their own masks. Some they’d been given, some they’d made themselves. Few people had no masks at all, though some occasionally went without theirs.

The masked paths the girl took led her past many wonders. Chasms filled with sky, towers filled with dreams, gentle creatures living in monster-masked societies.

Everyday like clockwork, the ends of the paths took her home.

Metamorphic Tales

January 2, 2010

It’s odd how stories will dance and shift.
How their power, their need to be written, spoken, shared, can change from moment to moment. How they’ll pull me along, inexorable, irresistible. To an ending, or to several, or to places somewhere along the way they’ll coax or coerce me.
Then all to often, they’ll simply stop.
Unfinished and untold, they drift away and I forget them.
Sometimes they come again, new and different or similar and tauntingly familiar. Sometimes they emerge like this, from the shadowy cocoons of forgotten tales.
Sometimes they disappear and never come to me again.

On Promises and plans.

January 1, 2010

It’s been awhile.  Which is a pity, since failing to keep a promise or goal to/for yourself  is a sad thing. A pity.  So I’m going to try to improve, as best I may.  No promises, though, promises only bring stress.

Just an assertion of intention, to try my best to fulfill my hopes for this project. So here I go, planning once more.

I’ll rely on hope and dream for this, as promises and planning didn’t work out so well.