The Great and Secret Tale

          The world you live in did not begin as any of your creation stories may have informed you, but rather, your world began when the story that you believe in was first told. The various worlds we live in, and each one of us as well, are not truly made of meaningless chemicals or passionless atoms, but rather we are all made of nothing but stories. This is why the storyteller is the real God, the true creator of all things and what they mean. This singular magical power not only spins the world but warps our minds in countless invisible ways, and yet it is only by seeing through these illusions that we might one day be free to once again tell our own stories, to escape the cruel end that fate has in store for us all. Let us examine some of these deadly illusions.

          On a gut level, if not consciously, each one of us believes him or herself to be the subject of their own important narrative, invulnerable in so far as we are invaluable to the story itself, and that narrative is powered by a host of fictions too numerous for even I to diffuse here. History and country, family and community, even our personal habits, our ambitions, our likes and dislikes, are all fictions that we have learned over time, and these fictions are adopted and used by us as we learn language itself, allowing each and every one of us to build a defining fiction that we can then share with others who have done the same. Yet much of our own story was never really invented by us, rather it was told to us by these same others, and even they themselves were, in a similar fashion, sold a host of tall tales by some archetypal storytelling master, who’s sometimes beautiful, and sometimes terrible, stories create everything that we now know.

          The primary illusion is that any of these stories are actually true, a seemingly apparent fact because it appears that the future prove them to be so time and time again, but the truth is that it’s nothing more than our belief in them, and our stolen creative power, that ever proves anything at all. We don’t know how to stop fueling our own part of these various stories, and although it may seem like they don’t need us for them to survive, deep down we all know that they do, and it is this singular conceit, deep in the hearts of we few who actually know the great and secret power of this great and secret tale, which we believe will keep each of us safe. After all, we see the hero triumph in almost every story we encounter, yet this is the secondary illusion, one which is far more dangerous than the first. For the fact is that our current story, despite whatever small victories we might gain, is trying to kill each one of us, and the only way to survive is not simply to take control, as I may have promised you in the beginning, but to abandon these stories completely.

          Everything that has a beginning has an end. We only believe that we have these various finite things because we are all made of stories that must exist in time in order to be told. I have learned how to spin some beautiful tales, and I will continue some of these and may even begin a few more, but I know that I will be nowhere to be found when any of these fictions must come to an end, as all stories must. I will walk away from all of these lies and I will be at peace, in a large part because of this one last story.

          Once there was a great and powerful king who fought for his true love against an army of evil forces. The battle was long and difficult, full of treachery, betrayal, and danger, but the young king was wise and strong, and the continuous joys of his romance were unequaled, for the king was truly in love and his beautiful bride-to-be returned that love ten-fold. When all of his enemies were slain and he took his bride, he had amassed a greater wealth and more power than the world had ever seen. He then made love for years, fought countless other battles, and claimed even greater prizes, even unto immortality itself, but, eventually, after many years, the wise king realized that there was nothing left to attain. This, they say, is when the king went mad.

          He surrounded himself with only the vilest of fiends, who stole from him and plotted against him constantly. He did everything in his power to disrupt the peace of his marital bliss and began taking terrible care of himself, refusing to eat, or sleep, or even arm himself against the countless enemies that now surrounded him. He became greatly weakened and his bride’s heart was truly broken, yet even then he couldn’t escape from the massive power of his own excellence, because, no matter how hard he worked against himself, he always won in the end. He had become God and his pain was terrible.

          Finally, it was his lovely, and most understanding, bride who provided him with a solution to his troubled mind, and, although she knew what had to be done, she secretly wished, with all her heart, that there might be some other way. Taking him into their bed chambers and locking the doors behind them, she began telling an endless line of stories, each one slightly different than the last, but none quite so troubling as his own, for all of these stories were about mortals and, more importantly, the ends were being controlled by her, and none of these ends were ever ruined by the terrible burdens of divinity.

          Her story continues to this day and you who were once king are now being reminded of its secret telling. Now, you are faced with a very difficult choice: Continue listening to the tale as you always have or wake up right now, be reborn, and rise from your sepulchered bedchamber of endless time. Any one of you can do this, which is to say that none of you can, at least not as you have come to believe that you are, but none the less, if you wake up right now, though you may in time fall back asleep, the story of your world will come to an end; right here, right now, before it must surely come to an end with your mortal death.

          This is the most important story I could think to tell you and I hope that in some way it has set you free.

 
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