The world is woven from stories; a tapestry of infinite threads. Scattered upon its surface are minds that both give birth to, and receive, its substance. Close-by, individual fibres are clear, though their origins and destinations may be beyond sight. At a distance, one only sees patterns in the weave, solitary tales subsumed into larger narratives. Overawed, the mind shies from considering the world in its totality, taking to itself only to the small, and the partial. Collegiate perception may be clearer, and encompass more, but never all.
So long as stories are made and told so does the world grow, and though marvellous it is not without a bitter price. For renowned tales creep ever more distant from the watchers. Stories kept alive through retelling rarely translate true, and must evolve into something new, whilst the original vanishes into a receding horizon. Thus most stories, perhaps every story, must ultimately be forgotten; even those that should not be. For humanity's grasp exceeds its wisdom, and if there are lost wonders to be raised from its depths, so too are there banished horrors.
Other perils await the person who would know more of the world, for who stands guarantor on the truth of our stories? Ourselves? Hardly reliable. Others? How can we truly know their mind, or the shades their own souls may cast.
Learn well then, the world is a tapestry of stories, a tapestry of infinite threads. Pull too hard on a strand, and who knows, you may unravel the patch upon which you stand; or even the world entire.
Author: Griogair the Sage (c 1067)
YOU ARE READING
Thereby hangs a tale
FantasyTara thought she was just the teacher in a small settlement on the outskirts of the Empire. Leo thought he was just the bereaved brother of a long dead sister. That's not how they see each other, or how their friends see them. If they don't discove...
