Stories are like Sunlight

Feeling has no form, nor shape. It is not hidden from us, we see it in our eyes and our actions, but it is often unacknowledged and thus misunderstood. 

Humans tend to explain this phenomenon with stories; words with meaning, combined as wisdom. 

We speak of things, great and evil things, as if they teeter on the edge of our world - imagined. That is the lie we learn to love. 

We imbue our souls with words to speak and yet cannot say exactly what we wish. Our hearts pound for truth. 

And yet, it is in this illusion of understanding that we lose ourselves. 

Feeling may have no form, nor shape. It may not be held nor may it be seen. We know it is there between us, this invisible thing called feeling, though we have no proof. But it is often the tumult of emotion that leaves us rasping in its wake, choked almost to death by our simple ignorance of its existence. 

“Speak, silly humans”, the stories say and yet we do not listen. We mistakenly believe the myths of monsters were a warning to stay safe from the creatures of night and darkness, but rather they were a warning of what we could become - of what some already are…Monsters of our making. 

Kings and Queens - rulers of ruin; rebels and rabble rousers inciting a revolution that will begin with anarchy and only ever end in tyranny. 

This cycle is as constant as the sunrise and sunset, as unbroken as the silence of death. 

And so it is our task as Taleweavers to bring light to this darkness - to reveal the vibrant shapeless colours of love, and light and hope.

.  .  .

Sunlight follows me like footsteps. Flashes of gold gleam like gilded feathers on the wind, flowers and leaves of silver and bronze, flowing and dancing in the slight silent breeze. I observe the world in passing and smile as inspiration knocks on my mind. My tribe takes solace in such freedom. At the age of eight, we take to the world with nothing but ink. The swirls and spirals of ancient letters mark my skin, identifying me as a Taleweaver. I wear my words with pride. 

I work my way through the kingdom’s winding streets, delighted with the looks of wonder I receive from the surrounding crowds. Despite missing the meadows of my homeland, the City is one of colour. Linen hangs from window to window; house to house, market stalls filled with fruits from foreign lands and barrels of barley ready to be sold and heaved into the waiting carts. Most of the merchants will have journeyed a long distance, having travelled from the hills and fields of farmland. I find comfort in this, understanding the beautiful simplicity of life in the country. As much as I loved it, I had always longed for an adventure. 

Tonight is the Feast of Moonlight. Once the last light of day leaves the world in darkness and fireworks mark the beginning of night, people will gather in a circle and tilt their heads to the sky. Stars will combine in an explosion of silver and the darkness will give way to moonlight. 

Such an occasion happens only once every eleven years. I still remember the first time I saw the astral event. My tribe gathered as a circle in the very same way as described in the stories but instead of looking up, they looked at me. I was but a child, sat in the centre, eagerly awaiting my rite of passage into the world of storytelling. My arms itched to become imbued with the ink of thought. I had no idea what to expect, but the beauty of the moon was unexpected. I was captivated. If I had stared into a river at the same moment as I stared at the moon, I would swear my eyes were silver globes. I could not look away.

This year was different from the last. I was the only eight year old child that year. I never knew why until I left. Through my travels from kingdom to kingdom, collecting stories like fireflies, I discovered the truth behind my past and so too, realised the true meaning of endings. 

Every story has one, it seems.

Elders die and so too do adults, but sometimes children are taken before their time. Sometimes death is merciless and manifests in the form of murder - a choice unlike disease or age to steal life from those who have barely even tasted it. This choice is driven by hatred, a feeling of malice so strong that it blinds people to the darkness of their deeds. 

The Kingdom of Valour had grown arrogant in its militant skills and so grew fearful of knowledge as it results in the awareness of consequence - that is, how power corrupts. So, in an attempt to silence the voices of truth, our tribe was hunted and the youngest of us, the newborns - slaughtered. My mother, however, had not been with the midwives that day. No one to this day, not even my grandmother, knows where she went when the soldiers came. 

After their ruler died, the Valours lost control and regressed to chaos. Now, their kingdom lies in ruin, destroyed from within by corruption. It has been nineteen years since then and it is our role as Taleweavers to maintain this fragile state of peace. Hence, my presence at the Feast of Moonlight. 

Three representatives from the tribes will present three different stories, three possible fates, three potential futures. One will lead to peace. One will lead us to ruin. And the last, is a repeat of the past. War and peace. War and peace. War and peace. An unforgiving cycle, “as constant as the sunrise and sunset, as unbroken as the silence of death.”

This is the story I will tell. 

Each will be told as a story already happened. Each will bear a brutal truth so dreadful you cannot help but dread to hear it.

Each will reveal a lie for which ONE must die.

Stories are like sunlight, they rise to the surface of the mind in the moment they are said, even though unbeknownst to the speaker beforehand, and, when the final word is spoken, words give way to the silence of night and leave its inky mark on the world - as light, in the form of the moon.

A reflection, a reminder, a memory.