Myth

Dedicated to everyone who has ever been inspired to write or simply tell a tale. And to those that struggle to find their voice through difficult times.

                                                                                           

                                                                                                                 Myth

                                                                                                                    By

                                                                                                   Carlos Lorenzo Estrada 

     Once upon a time Story sat by the banks of the river knowledge contemplating a prologue to her provenance.  She was immersed in the echoes of the rippling crystal waters.  Their susurrating allure spoke to her with the sound of gentle flowing shards of glass.  The words said too abstract to divulge any meaning from, yet they were cooing and comforting none the less.  Reminiscent of dreams forgotten by the waking of consciousness.  Elusive and fading like whispered apparitions.

     "Who are you waiting for?" Inspire asked as she made her way toward her young sister's side.

     "I was waiting for you." Story replied softly.

     "Such a silly little girl." Inspire said teasingly.  "Inspiration waits for no one." And with those words she was gone.  Leaving her sister to ponder if she was ever really there.  And remarking of her flighty nature.

     Time moved forward as it wanted; slowly and ploddingly.  The late morning sun hung high in the bright lavender sky, while billowy soft orange clouds drifted purposely by.  Story looked upon her mirrored image in the shimmering water.  Her blank stare searching for any hint or context that could define her aspirations.  There were none, only a feeling of forced expectation, as well as an agitated sense of anticipation, which often anguished her.  Like an empty page devoid of substantive meaning or hope.  She was haunted by it.

     "What do you see?"  Coda asked his sister as he stood behind her following her gaze.

     "Nothing...only emptiness.  There are no words. " Story said in a sigh of resignation.  

     "Hmm.  A painter does not paint without a canvas.  Their art is drawn from a life lived.  It is in the living of life that we gain true insight to the world that surrounds us.  Thus, symmetry, radiance, and texture have a more sublime defining composition."  Coda placed a gentle hand upon his sister's shoulder.  "You will find no meaning simply sitting by a river...while life around you passes by.  For your images are drawn by words of a world that is in constant inertia."

     "But it's beautiful here and peaceful too." Her response was brisk and petulant in its adolescence.

     "They are but fleeting moments of beauty and the world is full of them.  Do not limit yourself to one place and one moment.  We are all part of a larger tale.  Intrinsic and yet illusory.  A myth does not write itself."  With that being said he was gone.  Leaving Story to wonder what his enigmatic words truly meant.

     Story continued to sit by the river, its tranquility dissuading her search for a meaningful purpose.  She was haunted by the thought that all that has ever been said was said.  There were no more tales to tell, or versions to tell them in.  She was resigned to the fact that she would be nothing more then the empty pages she believed herself to be.  The Serendipity of Inspiration was gone.  She grasped at her aspirations as if grasping the wind; an endeavor of futility.  It was then that she was struck by a pebble on the side of her head.

     "Ouch..." She winced in pain running her hand against the swelling lump.  "That hurt."  She could hear the mischievous laughter of her twin younger brothers Strife and Struggle.

     "Come and play with us." Strife called out to her.

     "It'll be fun." Struggle said adding to his brother's pronouncement.  They danced between the coral trees in giddy joy, immersed in the play that young children often do.  The scent of lavender and lilac rode upon the waves of an unseen breeze.  They created moments of wonderment in their vivacity.  For there is an immortal quality within the exuberance of youth.  We live for the moment as children, and count every second of regret and indiscretion as feeble old adults marching towards our end.  It is in the Strife and Struggle of living that we are doomed to experience our mortality and marvel at the beauty of the eternal world we live in. 

     "Leave me alone.  I don't have time for childish things!" Story was more perturbed then angry at her siblings.  Despite their irritable behavior they were essential to her existence.  They were as much a part of her as she was of them.  In every great legend there is Struggle and Strife to overcome.  Even if we should falter against an insurmountable tragedy there are lessons of hope that can Inspire others to rise beyond their human frailties.  And wisdom knows we are all defined by our imperfections.  It is there where we find grace.

     "Run along and play.  Don't bother your sister." Exposition called out to his sons.  His words were gentle and yet authoritative.  He approached his daughter with contemplative thought and purpose.  "She wants to be alone, so let her be."

     He hesitated for a moment before sitting by her side.  He could feel the sea between them and yet he did not allow its distance to temperance his empathy.  There are unspoken words between fathers and daughters that often fall in the spaces between them.  And yet in those moments of silence there is nothing more reflective of their unbreakable bond.  Exposition leaned gently against his daughter and kissed her on the top of her head.  He stood never taking his eyes off the flowing river and smiled.  Then left her to her peace.

     She missed him.  More was said without words; simply by actions.  Not all precious memories contain dialogue, for most are marked by simple acts of kindness.  The subtle nature of our frailties.  Story found herself thinking the most profound thought.  We often take for granted the moments of silence between those we love.  There is not a single word that defines those seconds in time.  They simply are ephemeral and unforgettable.  And our lives are the culmination of those memories.

     "There's my little dreamer.  Why are you sitting here alone and with such a sad frown?"  The voice and words spoken seemed to apparate from the nature around Story.  It was soothing and disarming in its tone.  Its texture exuding warmth and a wisdom of matriarchal divination.  

     "Mom..." Story rose with surprise rushing into the arms of her mother Myth.  A flush of warmth greeted her embrace and she held tight to this ethereal second in time.  It painted her heart with an everlasting memory.  The kind that are reminisced in the fleeting moments before dream.  "I'm not sad, mama.  I just feel a little bit alone.  Like I have nothing worth saying."

     "A story without meaning is like a book without words."  Myth held her daughter tight.  There is a comfort of belonging and home that can only be defined by a mother's embrace.  For such an action of tenderness defines our higher nature.  Myth knew this to be true.  The guidance she chose to share with her child was the same once shared to her.  They came from a place that is instinctual and inherent.  Mired in the precepts of our diverse traditions.  We paint our history in words native to our tongue.  They are the generational fulfillments of maternal aspirations.  "Do you know there isn't a moment that passes that somewhere in the world a tale is being told.  We are all storytellers.  Each life, past present, and future are a single word in a never-ending tale.  One can not find Inspiration without Strife or Struggle.  Without Story; Exposition and Coda become meaningless.  And in a world without words, and all these precious little things, Myth ceases to exist.  I am who I am because of you, and I shall always be so.  Until the last story is told.

                                                                                                             Prelude.

     

     

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good introduction. You create strong characters, interesting story line. I liked how you are setting up the story. I wanted to know and read more. You had tempted the reader. Thank you Carlos for sharing the amazing story.
Coyote

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

Thank you, Coyote, for this kind review. I wrote this a few years back during a rough time of writers block. I felt the urge to write something that spoke to the subject. But I struggled to find a way to approach it. Then I watched an interview with the late writer Joseph Campbell and it inspired me. It would be a fantay story that reflects the ideas of writing. I loved the world that the characters inhabit it was fun to play in it. And Myth herself was drawn from my Grandmother who was the very first storyteller in my life, and who gave me voice to weave my own stories. In the end I wrote this for all of us writers who at time struggle with our art. Thank you again for your kind review, and sharing your thoughts.

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome Carlos.

[Chris Shaw]

Such a pleasure to read this and guided here by Mattevelli. I have read your response to him for further understanding. Full of wisdom. I have always valued silence. It is then that my mind can either drift or connect and focus on something specific. It is in silence I get my inspiration. In the quietest moments. Thank you Carlos.

Chris

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

Thank you, Chris. For the kind words. I tend to do most of my writing late into the night. To me tales have a voice. They are like apparitions that whisper to us. Almost like falling asleep watching some old movie from the 40s or 50s and hearing the voices fade. That is how I hear a character. Right on the cusp of dream. Sometimes it's a sentence or phrase. Or even from a news article drawing inspiration from events or names. I tend to draw more clarity from them in the silence. Thanks again for the kind words, I really appreciate it.

[Chris Shaw]

That is precisely what happens to me. I am usually given a sentence. I don:t necessarily start my poem with it. It can feature anywhere in the poem, but always a voice out of nowhere and usually eight beats :)

[mattavelli]

Hello, Carlos! :)
This was a lot of fun to read. I'm surprised it could be here a week with no comments.

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

Thank you, Matt. Myth was inspired by two people. The prolific writer Joseph Campbell and his insightful dissertation on writing and Myth. As well as my own grandmother who inspired the character Myth in this short story. She was a wise old Guatemalan woman who in her lifetime gave birth to over 20 children. I want to say about 6 died in child birth. She had very little education but was a remarkable storyteller. To this day I still think of her and miss her. I also wrote this through a battle with writers block. I hope to inspire those that may go through it as I did.

[mattavelli]

I feel inspired by it. I rarely have writing ideas, and when I do I’m a bit of a maniac until I get them out. My short term memory has gotten pretty bad.
Wow, your grandmother was impressive. She must have been very busy.

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

yes she very much was. Hahaha. I hear you there about your insecurity in writing stories. I still have that struggle. I'm such an impatient person, it's a fault of mine. It's funny though now that I have my smartphone I keep note pad opened so if some inspirational idea or phrase speaks to me I immediately write it down because I'm also forgetful. Hope you have a wonderful day. And thanks again I can't thank you enough.