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Carrying very little, she walked. In this now, she wasn’t worrying about where to go, or when, or who saw her, or how they saw her. Some of the world was intact. Some of the world had been destroyed and changed forever. She felt the same about herself.

Soleil’s mind kept returning to the subject of stories, as though within all the events there could be a key she sought, and it was somewhere in this. She wasn’t exactly a writer by trade, though she could turn a good paper. Someone, people, got lost to the story, and that’s where they are now. It felt like more than just a way of coping; there was an imperative to understand.

There were no physically detectable traces of what happened to her father and Sturlusson. Flashes from a dimensional tear, and some blood on the sword. All that was left were the hints in everything, and this expression of story that kept coming. It was true that if anywhere, they would be in the story of this time, as though it were a place – at least, from her perspective. There were people, in many places, completely untouched by not even a ripple of these movements in the lives they live. That was assuredly so.

She continued to describe these feelings between bewilderment over misfortune, and awe over development and discovery – just in case the words would come close to describing answers to restless questions. They may settle or resolve in their time, or sleep to wake upon opportune occasion. She entertained the questions, or in other words, mysteries, like friends. Troublesome as they may seem, they would help her remember. It was part of this natural inheritance, and now coming into her own. She spoke to the air, unashamed, hearing her mind, moving forward.

What have stories
meant to me?
Enlivening or empowering,
a fountain of learning
for deepening understanding;
ultimately, also,
the mind’s play.
A refuge or
an escape, either way
and additionally, a
kind of portal.

The narrative is
in the consciousness,
however it’s expressed.
The story is in the breath,
the beat of the heart,
awareness from
moment to moment.
No question of
whether or not
there is a story
in the consciousness –
only a matter of which.
Like the sound
of many rhythms,
the stories blend
and weave together.
One part stands out
from the rest if you
listen carefully,
one voice from the
multitude, one story shines.
We begin, a tale is spun,
and it ends.

The energy of the day
pours into its moment
of reflection and expression,
reverberating through
other realms, itself
a reverberation.
The frame of awareness
is what makes a song,
makes a narrative –
the attention paid.

How is the story held,
cherished, and understood?
Through the telling,
experiencing, recognition,
and acknowledgment.
The way it’s received,
the method of relating,
the spark of its embodiment
or manifestation. A story
has its own story,
of formation, of
being known; awareness
of awareness. What is
the story when there
is no story, what happens
when a story ends, or
disappears? A shift of
dimension or meta-parallax,
within the nested
levels of experience.
Stories are as fractal
as natural physical
phenomena; get closer
and there’s more detail
and it contains another
entire story, leading to
another world filled
with stories. Tangential
or central, the connection
comes through almost
any and every part of it.

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