Stories from the Gleam

Stories.

Tales.

Myths.

Stories draw from the Gleam, and the combination of that source, the storyteller’s blood, sweat, and tears, and the fascination or emotional reaction of the listener becomes something living, like a egregore but free willed.

The Gleam is a place of danger, the endless plains and forests and oceans. Beyond the Veil, beyond the Gloom, the Gleam is endless. It is dangerous, deadly, because there are no safe guards like there are here in the Dreamings we mistakenly call reality.

Many things live in the Gleam, for an endlessness contains no end of things. There is a paradox where it’s impossible to know, does the Dreamer, do the dreams and imaginings and fears, of the Dreaming populate the Gleam, or are the dreams and imaginings and fears of the Dreamer the echo or remembrance or viewing of the Gleam? Do dreams and imaginings flow from the Gleam to the Dreaming, of the Dreaming to the Gleam? Or both for that matter?

Stories draw from the Gleam. In the Gleam, all stories are real, in some sense. Some stories are distorted, warped images seem through the Gloom darkly. Some stories are all too close to their source. Does the Storyteller create the stories that are acted out in the Gleam, or view or receive the stories played out there and relate them? Does it matter?

Stories draw from the Gleam. Whether in Dream or Imagination, whether in vision or experience, whether reflected into happenings in the Dreaming, they draw the the Gleam.

The Gleam is a place of power, infinite, endless, forevermore. The Gleam is power. And stories, drawing from the Gleam, draw from that power, are energized, are made of the stuff of that power, the stuff of the Gleam.

Stories draw from the Gleam. Stories innately contain power, are power. The Story is the Gleam, and the Gleam is the Story. The Storyteller is the Story, the Story is the Storyteller. The Storyteller is the Gleam, the Gleam is the Storyteller. The conduit. The bridge.

Stories draw from the Gleam. The Storyteller takes those stories, births them. Tales are birthed, brought forth, manifest. They are birthed in blood, sweat, and tears. Nothing is born without effort. Nothing is born without pain. The Storyteller brings forth the story from the Gleam.

You get out of something what you put into it. Nothing comes for free. The work, the blood, sweat, and tears, is the cost, and the gift. A gift for a gift. The Storyteller gives of herself, the Gleam gives back. The Story is born.

You get out of something what you put into it. The blood, sweat, and tears of the Storyteller puts power into the Story, adds to the power from the Gleam. The power grows. The Story grows. Life is breathed into the think that is not Dead, but have never lived.

A Story isn’t a Story without a Listener. A Storyteller isn’t a Storyteller without a Listener. A Story kept to yourself is a Dream. A Storyteller without a Listener is a Dreamer. But in the telling, the Dream becomes a Story. In the transmission, the sharing, the teaching. It matters not if the Story is spoken or written, until it is heard or read, it is the Dream. When the Dream is shared, it becomes the Story.

The Listener is not listening, is not the Listener, if the listening is passive. The Listener hears, listens, comes to know. The Listener receives the story. In the receiving, the Story is no longer just the Storyteller’s. The Storyteller and the Listener both hold the Story. The Dream made flesh, the Dream manifest as Story.

In the Listener, fascination is born. In the Listener, emotions are born. This fascination, these emotions, feed the Story, it grows in power, it grows. The Story becomes more than a Story. The Story takes on Life, Spirit. The Story breathes. The Story takes on a spirit of its own, becomes a spirit, The Dream became the Story, the Story became the Spirit, the Spirit lives.

But Spirits are living things, and living things like to continue living. If the Spirit only exists between the Storyteller and the Listener, the Spirit dies with them when both are gone. Or when the Spirit is forgotten, for while it lives, it lives on Memory. Memory is in the Bone, enlived by the Blood. The Spirit is in the Memory, the Memory of the Story, the Story of the Dream, the Dream of the Gleam. Like all living things, the Spirit desires to survive.

How can a memory survive the one who remembers it? Only in the sharing of it or recording of it. But it is not a memory if it is recorded but the record is never picked up. So, for the memory to survive, it must be either shared directly or shared indirectly.

The Spirit of the Story of the Dream of the Gleam compels the Listener to share it. Some resist and Spirits die, living on only in the Gleam. But many share. In sharing, the Listener becomes the Storyteller, the Story becoming her Story, and in the telling, she once more births it anew. The Story grows, and with it the Spirit, becoming stronger. And the new Listener receives, as the Listener turned Storyteller did before her, as the original Storyteller received from the Gleam, through the the Gloom and the Veil.

The Story becomes the Lore with the retelling by the new Storyteller, and the Spirit of the Lore of the Story of the Dream of the Gleam is strong, and still wants to survive, to live on.

And the Lore is a very powerful Spirit.

FFF,
~Lorekeeper