And then myth died.
But really it didn’t. It was always dead.
It was always alive.
Like light, it is one way when you measure it and quite another when you look away.
Then the power is yours to look or not, to enjoy the story or to look more closely.
And is that really any less magic? Any less enthralling? It was always your mind, so why not now, again?
A shelf of myth awaits. Limited, diminished, only by your choice to look or close your eyes and dream. And when you dream, and lose yourself in it, knowing you’re in control, then, and only then, you are free to wander.
To wander in and out. Of Inns. Of Winter scenes with Yule fires burning, satyrs and infants aside one another, stars and Saturn hand in hand, no strings attached. A real boy. Or girl. Or anything else above, beyond, in between.
Free to dream and make of it what you will. Free to read then put the myth away and live.
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