We are nothing more than wanderers. Wanderers with questions.
As a race of people, we are so confused, so lost, that we find ourselves weaving tales, singing ballads, chronicling histories and revering divine beings, all in the hopes of comprehending a universe that seems utterly intent on never revealing itself to us. A universe so intent on maintaining its surreptitious, clandestine façade that to question its nature is to engage with futility, for with each question posed does another spring forth ad infinitum, until we are left with an abundance of questions and very few answers.
Though our questions may be left unanswered, we are content to continue our pursuit, for we are certain that an absolute truth exists – a truth that will at last allay our fears and comfort our souls. A truth that will make rising from our slumber to greet the world each day as sweet as wandering through the open lavender fields we leave behind in our dreams. A timeless truth in whose sanctuary we are always welcome – in whose sanctuary respite and reverie come easy.
In our yearning for this truth, we seek the counsel of the philosopher and the storyteller. The philosopher greets us, guiding us to reconcile our reason with our existence; naught can spring forth from nothingness, thus is nothingness our truth. To the storyteller, nothingness is naught more than an empty canvas; a canvas whose purpose is to be filled. In channeling their creative energies to conjure forth immersive and captivating renditions of our world, the storyteller regales us with tales of magic and melancholy. The philosopher reminds us that magic is the antithesis of logic, though the storyteller ushers and pleads for us to turn our gaze unto the heavens; to remember that our existence is predicated on something far more wondrous than this mind of ours could ever imagine. Here do we stand, the storyteller whispers, beneath the vast empyrean sky; upon an earth filled with verdant fields and pools of sapphire. Somewhere, far beyond the realm of reality, we began as mere fragments – figments of the Divine. And now here we stand, able to sing, to dance, to love, to wander. The philosopher turns aside, and the storyteller smiles.
We are, the storyteller reminds us, made of magic.