Once upon a time….
There was a story. The first story; exciting, mischievous, daring. It danced about the world, flitting from mind to mind, whispering its secrets into the ears of those who would listen, always expanding, growing, teaching. Where it alighted, it left a part of itself behind and all these parts also went skipping out across the world. Women told the stories to their children to give them knowledge, guidance and hope. Men told them around their campfires to give each other courage and strength. Lovers whispered them to each other to deepen their bond. They were told in the lowliest hovels and the grandest palaces. And always the stories were free; free to change and grow. Throughout the world new stories sprang up and danced.
But one day men came with nets and spears and hunted down the stories. They caught them and pinned them into books, crushing their spirit and bleeding their lifeblood. They moulded them to suit their own thoughts and beliefs, sanitising and crippling their power. The stories could no longer change and their strength and meaning soon passed into history.
But the stories remained there, waiting, biding their time.
And now there is a rustling, a soft susurrus as the stories awaken and return to life. They are peeling themselves from the pages where they have slept for so long and are preparing to dance…….