I had a dream.
A big white hawk appeared from a far away land, a land of fairly tale, and flew around me in circles it’s sharp eyes fixed on me, it’s strong white wings spread wide… And then it carried on flying a winding path that took it from one world into the next. From the world of reality into the world of fairy tales and then back to the world of reality. And as it flew it sew these worlds together and its flight became the string it was sewing them with. From the world of reality to the world of fiction, from dreams to manifestation, back and forth, back and forth until the two worlds became one and I understood, once again, that there’s no reality and no fairy tale either, the two are one. They live in us and we live in them both at the same time. They live in us and they are us…
Our life is the stuff dreams are made of. Our stories are the archetypical stories of all mankind. What happens to us matters because we contain the whole universe. When we pay attention to our life we pay attention to the world. There is no fiction. There is no reality. There is only one world and we are it.
Before it went it told me to write. About life as it is. About life as it can be. Because there’s no difference.
And so I wrote about the fiction of our reality and the reality of our fiction. Because the two are one. One world sown together by the flight of a mighty white bird coming from a far away land.