The telling of our lives-- storytelling

I've always wondered if storytelling becomes more real than our reality. That we are able to connect with the lives, the thoughts, the motivations of fictional characters so that they exaggerate in such a way that they become more real. We can then empathize, and live and learn, and gain wisdom from characters that exist only in our minds. Such worlds, in science-fiction and fantasy seems so real to the touch, high definition, saturated hues of color. Emotions prick you and send your skin searing-alive, and yet, isn't it just human reality we were trying to explain? For trying to connect with, and fully grasp ahold of, and relate to someone else what life is?

What is the experience of a spiritual being living in a physical form, and finite time, and walking through this physical plane? Reality is some of those ideas and is the core concept of the life experience. But, if it hadn't been through the reading of stories as a small child, i wouldn't have know how lush life could be. Now, I find myself mostly frustrated, disconnected, and not understanding the games, and the basal realities, and the primal urges. It is in those basal urges that drag us downwards. Down under the current of the riptides and into the darkness. There, you scrape your skin against the sands of the bottoms of the shoreline. We exist there, at the bottom of the waves churning in dirt and saltwater. We lay unaware, bumping along, and unable to see, and sometimes, even forgetting which way is up.

That doesn't have to be the case though there's an opportunity for calling a calling in the dark like a lighthouse asking us to move away from the turbulence or not hit ourselves Montse rock cracking up in our heads and spilling forth your life force. This is such a waste! A waste in pure agony, useless and unplanned. That opportunity, that calling, that lighthouse in the dark, it's a pathway to connection. It's a pathway to personal gnosis. It's a pathway to spiritual evolution. I for one am grateful for the authors that were willing to send their mind on trips into the future, into the past, into their own psyches. They were willing to spill it forth for all of us to read its benefits. Without them, I would've been alone with no guidepost, no lighthouse, no guiding light, no hope to move toward the future. And yet, I was able to hold onto the future, knowing that it was waiting for me. I get a thrill every moment, every waking day. Finding myself thrown in the midst of a complex story with complex characters, with magic, with purpose, with love, and connection! All of those past stories are more than just stories. They were a promise of what fully actualized, adult, responsible, and independent life could be.

At the same time, I feel an undeniable urge to continue to pick the brain of those authors so that I can learn how to fully illustrate and convey my life experiences. I must relay them in a way that might get someone else that same sense of spiritual ecstatic, that connection. In my own story, my biggest fear is not share the searing depths of that story. It is to run out of time, or lose my focus, and lose my way. Down that solitary, shadowy path is the fear that my life could be personal mythos hidden under a rock in the dark with roly-poly's the worms, and the centipedes, and shared with another soul in the light of day. This fate cannot become!