I Was Told Stories, We Were All

It Is Easy To Forget How Mysterious And Mighty Stories Are. They Do Their Work In Silence, Invisibly. They Work With All The Internal Materials Of Your Mind And Self. They Become Part Of You While Changing You. Beware The Stories You Read Or Tell; Subtly, At Night, Beneath The Waters Of Consciousness, They Are Altering Your World.

When You Stop Inventing Reality Then You See Things As They Really Are.

The Acknowledged Legislators Of The World Take The World As Given. They Dislike Mysteries, For Mysteries Cannot Be Coded, Or Legislated, And Wonder Cannot Be Made Into Law. And So These Legislators Police The Accepted Frontiers Of Things.

Yes, The Highest Things Are Beyond Words. That Is Probably Why All Art Aspires To The Condition Of Wordlessness. When Literature Works On You, It Does So In Silence, In Your Dreams, In Your Wordless Moments. Good Words Enter You And Become Moods, Become The Quiet Fabric Of Your Being. Like Music, Like Painting, Literature Too Wants To Transcend Its Primary Condition And Become Something Higher. Art Wants To Move Into Silence, Into The Emotional And Spiritual Conditions Of The World. Statues Become Melodies, Melodies Become Yearnings, Yearnings Become Actions.

It May Be That What You Could Be Haunts You. It Is Real. It Is A Weight You Have To Carry Around. Each Failure To Become, To Be, Is A Weight. Each State You Could Inhabit Is A Burden As Heavy As Any Physical Weight, But More So, Because It Weighs On Your Soul. It Is The Ghost Of Your Possibilities Hanging Around Your Neck, An Invisible Albatros, Potentials Unknowingly Murdered.