Myth

To what extent does what we hear about the world shape the way we speak to it? All our lives we’re fed fantasies of the perfect partner, the other half, the feelings of incompleteness that will not manifest until their resolution is immediately present; the problems that you didn’t know existed until their solution was manifest. This gross appropriation on the part of love of every other myth one can find oneself immersed in is nothing short of criminal at times. The currency of the myths is the intangible and unknown; truths about oneself hidden even from oneself. In a world where love has, like a destructive parasite to a host, appropriated all the resources of the soul, that ought to be available to fuel heroism, martyrdom, rebellion, psychosis, freedom, identity, thought, art – in such a world, I have no interest, but I am afraid of it.

Love and romance make poor candidates for the only myths in the world. Romance, in its flush, exists before love is made concrete. Other myths need to carry it forward, or love will die. And if love itself is thought to be myth, unreliable and yet reliant on faith – in such a world, romance, seemingly safer, is the sole refuge of the weary heart, and its final traitor. Like clockwork, the same tired motions and mechanics do little but mark time for the weary souls serving as cogs and hands and cuckoos. Myths are cyclic, but they need to convince; one cannot begin the circuit already weary at the thought of its end.

To that end, we were lucky. We were young. Our bones were limber, and hadn't ground down with a thousand repeated strains of one pattern. We simply hadn't yet had the time to do them injury.

But our myth was neither love nor romance. It was rebellion.