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As though knowing things she didn’t know, knowledge she couldn’t understand but could sense, it came out in a stream of consciousness. This may have been coping, or coming to terms – feeling without letting it overwhelm. She spoke from the universe to her soul, to another and to everything. She explained herself and explained it to herself, holding the sword. She said it to the Dragon, the sky full of Dragons, the city, the world, anyone, and no one.

Where story meets story,
apart from where story meets reality,
story is both a part of reality
and between realities.
I’ve seen and experienced
visions of the between,
where the dark and light
begin to interact and form
patterns with the mist.
There is the skin of reality,
and behind that is a vastness.
Where that skin peels away,
there could be another.
Though dark and light separate,
they are bound to each other
where they touch.
In that tiny layer
along the edge of the fractal mass
exists a screen upon which
plays the events of life.
We call that reality.
How does one fractal speak to,
or reach the edge
of another, separate fractal?
Are they truly separate?
Does a reality that’s a part of
reality need to be seen as
another reality in order
to be recognized?
Is that what happens at the end,
at the beginning?
There are moments when
it feels like one is in a story.
Sometimes I, for one,
might rather not be –
isn’t that when difficulty occurs?
Sometimes people want to be
in a story, because
stories are important.
They’re how we learn important things.
Everything important has a story
of its importance.
When is a story told to prevent,
when is a story told to encourage?
In a story, what is true
and what is real?
Who does one hope to be in a story,
and who do they end up being,
according to someone?
It can be important for
a story to end, somehow,
though there is often a way
it can continue.
The ending, a goodbye;
a release of intent.
Now all can be as they
would otherwise like to be,
now that they are no longer
bound to each other,
or to destiny.
Freeing, it may at times be,
but people may also despair
from the lack of meaning
in living without narrative.
Narrative makes life
a part of something.
Suffering may be given purpose,
though damned for a reason.
How do people find the echoes
of what time forgot,
when they know that somewhere
a key to their experience exists?
Where can a mind travel
from within its own dimensions,
what can it see,
what veils can it pierce?
Is a story a reality,
or an unreality?
There are ways that a story can
link places that shall never meet,
except through their commonality.
Story is full of others,
but there are others behind the others.
How deeply can one
fall into a story,
how long can they be trapped in it?
For the duration that it
takes to hear it?
For the time it takes
to transpire in its world?
It’s like there’s a place,
where stories and knowledge exist,
but there may be many such places.
Perhaps each has its own place,
like a plant.
Are there coordinates, locations,
addresses for each?
How does one connect
to these places from one’s own?
Those said to invent stories
may really be inventing a way
to see stories – connecting them
with the linear mind,
the golden thread that finds us
the one we need, the thread
of individual awareness.
Reality dovetails.
There is likeness,
because we seek likeness,
see selves in others.
Others from other places,
others from between.
Real and not real,
maybe more real.
The certainty of a feeling
one has never felt for oneself,
but for another as another.
How is it known when it’s time
to tell a story?

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