I believe in Story.
Not always the one that begins, “Once upon a time…”
But many times, yes.
Story transcends what we can understand.
Words weave together a waterfall of logic and emotion.
Songs bleed soulfully into darkened hearts to bring them light.
Paintings portray painful pasts.
Architecture’s elevation echoes over upturned faces, giving a glimpse of something beyond this world.
I believe in the High King and Knights.
I believe Eowyn is out there, and
that she could be
Me.
I believe hobbits are real.
They live a quiet life but, when the time comes, they fight for what matters.
Dragons, the Witch-king of Angmar, dark wizards, all seem to tower above us, but they can be slain.
And I believe in Storytellers: the ones who cheer us on, the ones who say,
“Not all who wander are lost.”
“They are all so important!”
“In your world, I am known by another name.”
You think I am the storyteller. No.
I am just a pen.
(Black ink, preferably.)
An instrument. I can do
Little.
Our hearts love epic adventures, and sometimes we feel there is something missing
because we wonder
why aren’t we on those epic adventures, conquering new lands
Part of the Story seems Lost. Words forced into straitjackets beg for release.
And then, one day, they are released by the True Storyteller.
Excalibur. Kings. Queens. Healing cordials. Time Lords. Unicorns. Talking Beasts.
Absent-minded wizards. Noble mice. Kind beavers. Fauns. Ents. A Great Lion.
“They don’t actually exist,” say practical voices. “Stop dreaming.”
But.
My music is turned up too loud.
So I don’t hear them.
